The smell of grease on a hot griddle always turns me on.
In my teens and twenties, I worked in restaurants, usually as a cook, sometimes as a waitress. In every restaurant, there was a guy (always a cook, because cooks are sexy) I had a wicked crush on. The guy was always wiry-skinny, had dark hair, usually a few prison tats, and a mean attitude. I used to hang around the line and watch the cook, wreathed in steam and smoke, a cigarette hanging from his lower lip, cussing up a blue streak as he flipped those burgers and plunged the fries in boiling grease. So, to this day, kitchen smells get me a little bajiggety.