So many peaches are a disappointment. One gently prods: the flesh yields. Good. One lifts the fruit to one's nose: perfume. One pays, brings it home, cuts it, and it's a dud. Again and again. From the most vaunted producers.
So now I buy peaches once a summer and when they're good, good. And when they're not, ah well.
Good are the yellow fleshed peaches sold hard by and outside the main entrance to the Ferry Building, just a bit to the left.