Don’t cry for my delicatessen

After 40 years, my local deli in London closed at Easter. The fateful signs appeared only a few days before: three for the price of two; then, more darkly, two for the price of one. This may be standard fare at Tesco, but the death knell for your typical rip-off English deli, where the norm is two for the price of three.

For seven years I have popped in once or twice a week. Not once when I asked about a cheese did they offer me a taste; even to the end they refused to cut the fat off the ham before slicing it. The shop assistants were sullen, the owners mean, the window display a chaotic pile of Italian imports faded by the sun. Once I inquired after a stub of parma ham (normally given away for a few lira in Italy), and the owner, a Margaret Thatcher lookalike, weighed it as if it were pure gold.

Londoners should learn from New Yorkers