At first I just assumed she was arrogant. I picked out maybe five jalapenos, tossed them in a plastic bag, and brought them up to the counter. Her hands flew over the digital scale's keypad faster than I could follow, and then she typed $2.14 into the cash register.

Which, you know, was obviously wrong. Foie gras of similar size wouldn't have rung up for two bucks. "$1.99 a pound?" I asked.

"$2.99," she replied.

I pointed to the sign. She shook her head almost angrily and recalculated, coming up nearly a buck less. "That's not how much it's supposed to be," she said.

I left feeling a bit shocked. That's some kind of attitude, I thought, for a woman who peels garlic for a hobby. The signs at her fruit stand are mere suggestions of prices that yield to some overriding "supposed to be" price at the register? That wasn't the way we did things in L. A.

I returned a few days later for bananas, an important source of potassium in my diet. I grabbed a bag of six, noting the sign that said $.79 cents a pound, and once again the woman's hands flew across the scale in a flash before she punched $3.68 into the cash register.

Okay, I thought. That's a little steep. Another "supposed to be" price?

I didn't say a word, since I wasn't convinced she was wrong, but when I got home I weighed and I calculated. Two pounds fifteen ounces. At $.79 a pound, they'd be $2.32.

Apparently her "supposed to be" price was $1.25 a pound.

My face started to redden. My blood pressure shot up. Ohmigod, I thought excitedly, I'm being ripped off by a New York crook!

I couldn't believe my good fortune. I mean, like everybody else in America, I'd heard all the New York fables. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, they bragged -- and then I found a city that was about as edgy as a Whole Foods store. Over the years I'd come to the sad conclusion that those golden days were long gone, and the city had somehow turned into an East Coast Kansas City. Could it all still be true? Could that old New York attitude still be intact?

I went back the next day just to confirm my good luck. Once again I picked up six bananas, double-checking the $.79 sign. I shook with anticipation as she rang me up. My hopes would be dashed if she only charged me a couple bucks. Three dollars or, fingers crossed, even four would really make my day.

Her fingers danced across the scale and then she punched a number into the register. $3.38.

HOORAY! I nearly screamed. YOU'RE A TOTAL CROOK!

Now curious for details, I asked, "Wait; how much do those weigh?" And instantly she flung them back onto the scale, this time coming up with $2.02. Not a word of apology or explanation, not the slightest twinge of guilt. "I couldn't give a fuck," her blank expression said, "because what are you gonna do?"

I literally skipped all the way home as flowers blossomed and birds sang. I'd been here nearly ten years, and I'd just about given up hope. I'd thought the city had changed -- but it hadn't. The faces had changed, but the dream was still alive and well. After all of New York's boom years, when the Caucasian crooks rocketed upscale from blue-collar crime to real estate fraud and hedge-fund embezzlement, the city's immigrants took up the slack.

Yes, I thought proudly, clutching my rip-off bananas to my chest, this is still the fabled land where a hard-working Asian can come with virtually nothing and soon steal her way into Gucci clogs.

New York, New York; it's my kind of town. I know that cashier would join me in saying, that's how it's supposed to be.

Rosemary Farm, 338 Graham Avenue, Brooklyn, NY (718) 599-7385