Singly, or together, they sit against the wall behind the restaurant, iphone in one hand, cigarette in the other. In city back lanes, by side doors in Chinatown, cooks measure the hours of their day with smokos. The art of cuisine has been obscured now they are factors in the ‘hospitality industry’. Tobacco and the aroma of cigarette smoke have their own distinctive pungencies for those who can identify by smell herbs and spices with their eyes closed. Springtime appetites must be met. Outside in soothing November air the white-vested cooks take ten minutes before returning to one hundred courses.