The southwest corner of one of the city’s busier intersections held a nosegay of flower shops. They weren’t florists, exactly. That is, on entering them, you weren’t silenced by a chill, stilled hush and the rich, earthy scent of mortality, by dark walls lined with glass-doored coolers in which were set (cold pastorals!) tubs of carnations, roses and freesia, remote in their perfection. These four shops were greengrocers, and, at one time, oranges, apples, grapes, lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers had crowded their open counters, with a few galvanized tin pails of seasonal flowers brightening each shop’s shaded façade. But in the eighties the neighborhood had become decidedly upscale, and now the stores sold only flowers and, from a small refrigerator at the back of the southernmost shop, the occasional bottle of Perrier or S. Pellegrino or whatever spring water was currently gracing the menu of the city’s culinary chéri du jour.
