There’s a shop on Seventh Avenue called Russo’s, but it wasn’t till recently that I realized it was called Russo’s, because the first thing you see from the outside is FRESH MOZZARELLA painted on the awning, and, really, when you see that sort of thing you realize it is an invitation and you should just go along and not ask too many questions. One sunny weekend morning when Tom and I were poking around the ’hood, I popped in to get a tin of coffee. The boy stood outside for a smoke, and I came out with two boxes of fresh pasta, a bottle of chocolate milk, and a handful of Italian chocolates. So you see what kind of place this is.

This morning I pushed open the door, heading for some yoghurt, and left with six sage sausages, six chocolate petits suisses, a hunk of Spanish goat cheese and a box of roasted artichokes.

The way the artichokes came about was, I’d pointed at the bowl on the counter and said, “What’s that?” and the guy behind the counter said, “Roasted artichokes.” “Oh!” I said, “may I have a couple, please?” “You’ve never tried them before?” he said. “No,” I said, and swiftly, wordlessly, he picked one up in a paper napkin and handed it to me. And it was garlicky, and it was artichokey, and it was good.

I resisted the shelves of assorted cannoli today, but I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.