Everything reminds me of something.

Like the Middle-East market new to a neighborhood with some Greeks and the second largest Armenian population outside Armenia, second only to Glendale.

Armen Market in Pasadena, across the street from Altadena, literally, caddy corner from Prime Pizza at New York and Allen, and a half mile up from Good Food Market which used to be Good Foods where we went all the time before they changed owners several times.

It’s just around the corner from the laundromat we went to numerous times. Shirley was pleased with the new owner who carried on a conversation as he tiled the floor. She liked to sit in the chair and chat with the neighborhood.

It’s across the street from where Aghoian’s Restaurant used to be, such wonderful fresh Armenian food, memorably wonderful soup, family friends, children my students, where once, after hours, I got down on the floor and did a Russian dance, which I had never done before and had no clear idea how to do it, just figured on the spot that that must be the way, thrusting out my leg, then a hop and change.

Armen is the only market around where you can get a good sheep’s head.

They struggled to find their niche, said, “We’ll be OK once we find out what Americans eat.”