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Joseph Mitchell begins his 1952 New Yorker essay
Up in the Old Hotel with a description of his heartening
walks through the Fulton Fish Market.
Every now and then, seeking to rid my mind of thoughts
of death and doom, I get up early and go down to Fulton Fish
Market. I usually arrive around five-thirty, and take a walk
through the two huge open-fronted market sheds, the Old Market
and the New Market, whose fronts rest on South Street and
whose backs rest on piles in the East River. At that time,
a little while before the trading begins, the stands in the
sheds are heaped high and spilling over with forty to sixty
kinds of finfish and shellfish from the East Coast, the West
Coast the Gulf Coast and half a dozen foreign countries. The
smoky riverbank dawn, the racket the fishmongers make, the
seaweedy smell, and the sight of this plentifulness always
give me a feeling of well-being, and sometimes they elate
me.
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