Roses.
The first time I ever smelled roses was at the funeral of my Great-Grandmother, whom we called Granny.
I’ve hated the smell of roses ever since.
Not really a “what” so much as a “when” – I hate the smell of food cooking late at night (or around bedtime). My downstairs neighbor has a chicken dish that he makes once every two weeks or so. He always seems to start cooking it at 10 p.m. and the smell fills my apartment. Ick.
Oh, and another vote for both patchouli and men’s cologne in general.