As they walked the aisles, she noticed Italian and Greek names on the placards above the stalls, and quite a few Asian ones, too. Perhaps these were the Vietnamese boat people she had heard so much about; she was on the verge of asking Andrew about this when she noticed a Russian name above one of the vegetable stalls. The elderly vendor was talking with an equally elderly customer, and she lingered over some potatoes in order to listen. It was not Russian she was hearing but Yiddish, a language she did not herself speak but quite a number of Soviet Jews did. She was tempted to try some Russian on them, but though she was sure they’d understand, her nerves failed her.

Sometimes the crowd was so dense, she and Andrew couldn’t move — not that she cared, there was so much to see. One stall sold only berries, another potatoes, a third displayed several different varieties of mushrooms. She bought some dark-brown ones: she would make Russian comfort food for their meal, a buckwheat kasha with mushrooms, which should offset cooking with a stranger. And Andrew bought an avocado — for their lunch, he said (how many meals did he intend they eat together?) — before guiding her into the delicatessen hall.

This area was even more fabulous than the fruit-and-vegetable section: an entire building of delicatessens. If only her mother were here. The smell was luscious with cheeses and sausages, smoked meats and pickles. They started down the first aisle. Standing outside one of the stalls was a woman with a plate of cheese. The cheese had been cut into small cubes and she was offering them to passers-by. Some people helped themselves, others declined, and no one was giving her any money. When she and Andrew drew near, the plate was held out to them.

‘Go on,’ Andrew said. ‘Take a piece.’ And when she hesitated, he added, ‘These are samples. They’re free.’

While she stood there dithering, other people were helping themselves, so she did too, although moved away quickly. The cheese was delicious, and she wondered if you were allowed to go back for more; but with another woman just up ahead offering little biscuits covered with a pink cream, she decided not to risk it. The pink cream was a caviar dip, Andrew said. Again she hesitated, and again Andrew said she should help herself, that these were samples. The pink cream was even more delicious than the cheese.

There were many more vendors in the deli section who were giving away their food. Andrew occasionally tasted something, but she took everything on offer, even while perplexed at such largesse: didn’t these people want to make the best profits? At least with the two-for-one deals at cafés and shops, the owners were earning some money; these deli people were getting nothing.