I’m a huge Russo’s fan. When my children were very small and the stress of keeping them fed, diapered and rested seemed overwhelming, Russo’s was like medicine. As soon as my husband agreed to take the helm for a while, I would run to my car and drive to Russo’s, a Disneyland of culinary delights and fresh-picked escapism. After being greeted by rows of fresh flowers, I would walk the aisles listening to people comment on the varieties of lettuce in a variety of languages, reading the little cards describing cheeses the names of which I couldn’t pronounce, and taking as long as I could to decide which kind of fresh pasta to buy.
I pulled into Russo’s last night hoping to pick up a few things, but alas, I arrived after they had closed. It was even more beautiful than usual. No constant clanking of metal cart wheels, no jostling for position in the crowded aisle. Just the night sky, rows of quiet mums, and root vegetables bedded down under burlap and ice. Oddly, the classical music was still wafting over the loudspeakers. I wonder if they ever turn it off. I hope not.