On an all-too-rare stroll through the Essex Street Market on Saturday afternoon, I made my usual rounds. First I said hello to Anne Saxelby at her cheese stall. Then it was on to Formaggio Essex, where I greeted Max and inquired about his latest finds. I stuck my head into Roni-Sue’s Chocolates, where they were hard at work, so I decided not to disturb. Then it was over to Rainbo’s Fish, where Ira was manning the waffle press in the tiny café across from their fish shop, and his partner, Ron, was filling a coffee order.

Almost having made a complete circle (and feeling rather like a resident of Sesame Street), I waved to Jeffrey the butcher, then stopped at the stall where I was hoping to see Norman Schapiro. Having written about him several times, I knew the not-so-elderly heir to the Schapiro Kosher Wine legend only came in to sell the syrupy yet nostalgia-making liquid on certain days of the week. Only this time, rather than the gate being pulled down over the counter where Norman usually lined up bottles of Catawba, Concord grape, Malaga and other fruity-hued elixirs, the tiny space was completely empty.

Norman had always seemed a little fragile, and I suspected that I knew why he wasn’t there. I asked his friends across the way who run a Latin American grocery, people I’d seen him joke with during business hours. "What happened to Norman?" I inquired. "He died," said a man with a mustache, not without a bit of regret. It had happened in October, and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t notice reports of his death that ran in the Times or the Sun. Now that I’ve read the Times notice, I see that I could have attended his memorial service, had I known. What struck me about Norman (the photo you see here is from a 2003 story in the Downtown Express) when we talked about his history was a quality he had, despite his years, of being the golden child of a prosperous winery that, in its day, was a focal point of Jewish life on the Lower East Side. (It used to occupy an entire block of Rivington Street, before Schapiro sold the buildings—his presence at the market kept him connected to the neighborhood where his grandfather first established the family name.) This is how I’ll remember Schapiro, from this story I wrote in the New York Press in 2004:

Passover is around the corner, and I am sure that there will be many others, like me, who didn’t hear the news, and will be coming around looking for Norman.  Last time I saw him was to write this story two years ago for Time Out. These were the last words of the article, and I like what he said:

One man wearing shades strolls past and shouts [to Schapiro], “Hey, boss!” over his shoulder. “They come to buy wine, you see that?” says Schapiro. Then, as if channeling his inner spoiled child, he stamps his foot and exclaims, “I love Schapiro Wine, and I want it to go on forever!”