Farmer's Market

Rudolph's favorite L.A. haunt. His repast of choice was Yolanda's spaghetti, followed by the molasses and ginger cookies at an adjacent bakery. Unfortunately, neither Yolanda, nor her spaghetti, nor the cookies are here anymore. But the original part of Farmer's Market still looks largely the same. Yolanda's would've been at the back left of this picture. My father and I sat in this very courtyard many a sunny afternoon after school, where he would read to me excerpts of his novels and poetry. It was public, yet private, and the upstairs tables provided ready refuge if you really needed to immerse yourself in the written word. Often you would run into people you knew, which provided a sort of small-town atmosphere, a two-minute chat, a wave, then a happy return to the written word.

On a recent visit to NY, I came across one of Rudolph's unfinished novels, where he had written a description of his favorite eatery. I include it here:

from "Farmer's Market" by Rudolph Schirmer

"How thankful I am for Farmer’s Market, this mini-oasis where I can take the measure of the world in retrospect or at long remove in the company of the slow-moving, the unambitious, the unscurrying, the unruffled. In duck-shooting attire, under baseball caps, they huddle at nearby tables discussing with singular lack of animus, though at times with animation, the already transpired, dissecting at their leisure the deals that last year or the year before, or ten years ago, fell through. Replenished by coffee and donuts baked by Mexicans and served up by tittering Chinese women, I riffle the New York Times…"