I was talking with a friend the other night about how
there’s always that moment when you’re away from New York and you’re standing
on a street corner and you can’t figure out what’s wrong but something isn’t right and then it hits
you: you’re looking around, you’ve been subconsciously looking around for
hours, and there’s no goddamn bodega.
I’ll preface this by saying I’m a New York City asshole and
I know it, and I know you know it, too. However, perhaps bear with me for a
moment while I try to explain—the bodega is an essential tool for survival here
and perhaps by unpacking that a little I can create a little sympathy for every
NYC asshole who gets anywhere else, looks around, and says, maybe a little
desperately, “Where’s the bodega?”
The bodega is the lifeblood of this city, we are helplessly
dependent on the bodega, and we have been trained to follow and obey bodega
law. Isolated from our bodegas, we are adrift and thus even more obnoxious,
terrified by not knowing how we might quench any sudden need for a bottle of
water or a bag of sunflower seeds or a sixer of beer. We’re babies without our
bodegas, we’re scared and alone and in need of comfort: take pity on the
bodega-less and help us toward a place of safety before you judge our
addiction. The good news is, of course, that there are bodegas in many places
outside of NYC, and bodega-less places have many ways to fill the bodega-shaped
hole; here I mean only to be the least asshole-y New Yorker I can be and share my ode to this institution.
To begin, there are several iterations of bodega, and
certainly none of them have “bodega” in their name, but whether it’s a kiosk or
a mini-grocery store or something in between, something about these
establishments marks them universally as bodegas. Bodega-ness is a feeling,
it’s a signal you can get from the inevitable green awning or the haphazardly
applied all-caps letters that spell out what the store has, in lieu of a name—CIGARET
E C NDY NEWSP ER. While bodega is a
Spanish word there isn’t necessarily anything particularly Spanish or Mexican
about most of them: it’s just as likely that you’ll find the joint is run by an
Asian lady or a dude from South Asia.
There are three main types of bodegas:
- The NYC-built kiosk, a kind of metal shed set on the sidewalk, which has water and other drinks, candy and snacks, cigarettes, magazine/newspapers, and a baffling assortment of random shit from playing cards to every kind of charger ever invented. Many of them are absolutely dripping with merchandise, umbrellas hooked on the overhang and strings of Cheese-Its decorating the sides.
- A tiny storefront. Sometimes these are just counters, barely bigger than a kiosk, other times they are long and narrow and the person entering has to edge by the person exiting and generally the counter is in the middle so if you want something from the cooler you have to smush yourself all the way to the back of the room while trying not to knock anything off the wall. These places appear to make their money from lottery tickets, cigarettes, magazines, newspapers, and tchotchkes: is there something you would like that is relatively small in size and has “NYC” emblazoned on it? They have it. The counter generally tops an impressive gallery of what are patently obviously bongs, punctuated by a couple of little name-plate-like plaques that read sternly, “TOBACCO USE ONLY.” (Those signs are often the most professional thing about these joints and they are the same everywhere so I’m guessing the bong dudes have them made up and throw them in with each new bodega-bong account.)
- The next level up is more of a traditional corner store, and as those get bigger they tend to include fresh food options, deli-style, or to be almost like mini-grocery stores. In my old neighborhood, I often did staples-shopping at my corner bodega rather than walk the extra two blocks to the actual grocery store—the bodega had everything I needed from beer to toilet paper (sold in packs as well as single rolls) to chapstick to pasta and sauce. They even had a cooler of pre-made food and I often picked up a tray of avocado rolls or some edamame from there. It’s very important not to think at all about how much something costs at the bodega versus the grocery store: you are paying for convenience and everybody knows it.
(Nearly) universal bodega rules:
- If you are buying a newspaper, you are allowed to shoulder through any crowd and/or cut any line in order to wave the paper at the clerk and put your money on the counter. You do not need to look to see if the clerk acknowledges you, just spin on your heel and leave.
- There is generally a set of items that are priced by fiat and then another set that are actually rung up. The former are key to the utility of the bodega: you approach the counter and hold up your item and the clerk names the price and you pay it. There is no, “Ok, and with tax that comes to…” and there is no conversation. There is arguably also no rhyme or reason to the pricing and I do think sometimes they’re just making numbers up, but who cares. Hold up a Snapple? “Three dollars.” Pick up a pack of gum? “Two seventy-five.” If you need change for a bill the counter person always manages to produce it before you have handed over your money, as if they magic it from thin air.
- No one will ever ask you if you need help finding anything. Never.
- If employees are restocking anything, you are in their way and you need to not be.
- Whatever the size of the space, it is packed floor to ceiling and if there are “aisles” cooperation is required for two people to occupy that space; if one of those people has a lot of bags or is otherwise made over-sized this is one place where huffing is strictly not allowed as bodega space is governed by bodega law which requires all space to be used at all time and customers agree to those terms, even if it means waiting your turn to look at the kitty litter choices.
- There are no carts; there are very occasionally baskets but not usually. Mostly it’s people wandering around holding their groceries in their arms, like babies, and if you’re trying to buy more than you can carry like that, you shouldn’t be shopping at the bodega. The whole point of the bodega is you can go there every single day, even more than once in a day if you need to.
- If it’s a grocery-store style bodega, it has everything and while no one will offer to help you it is perfectly acceptable to ask about the location of an item because all bodega employees are secretly proud that their bodega can function akin to the Room of Requirements in the Harry Potter books. Capers? Sure: regular and fancy. Birthday cake candles? Regular and trick. The interaction here goes like this: first, you make eye contact with someone, then immediately, literally as quickly as you can, you say, “Excuse me, do you have water chestnuts?” The bodega person will not respond but will flash down an aisle and that is your cue to follow closely as s/he will tap the item on the shelf as s/he blows by and disappears. If you have follow-up or additional questions you need to repeat the process.
- Similarly, if there is hot food—usually breakfast and lunch sandwiches—behind that counter will be either a guy who does not make eye contact but barks NEXT or a guy who stares at you without speaking. Both of these are invitations to submit your order, and it should be presented staccato, loudly, and without making it a question. If you want something weird, just say it—don’t ask. You can either just deliver the order—“two eggs scrambled on a roll, cheese, salt and pepper, extra butter, pickles”—or you can preface your order with “Let me have,” “Let me get,” or “Gimme,” as in “Gimme a roast beef on rye, mustard.” There is a way to say this phrase so as to imply both "please" and "thank you" as well as to convey respect for the establishment--try saying it out loud, maybe with a chin nod as preface: “Let me get an everything bagel, cream cheese.” Here someone might yell a question for clarification, such as “toasted?” but otherwise they will likely not acknowledge your order and you should just step back from the counter to wait for it to be slung at you. These counter men (they are almost always men) have outstanding memories and can manage several orders at once so if the guy shouting NEXT is also in the middle of making a sandwich, do not be put off by his labors but instead go ahead and issue your order: he’s got you.
- At the register: If there is a man behind the register he is involved in a conversation, often shouted, with a coworker. This conversation is generally in a language that is not English and the tone of it usually suggests it is the continuation of a long-standing disagreement, where both parties are completely dug in but for whatever reason the battle must be fought anew every day. The counter guy yells something, and the guy with his back turned, kneeling on the floor restocking a cooler shouts back; a pause, and then repeat.
- If there is a woman behind the counter she is either mouse-like small and quiet or she is looking at her phone (or both). She will not speak beyond whispering the total price of your purchases at you.
·
The exception to the two notes above is, of
course, the Regular. If you are a Regular at your bodega, you are part of a
family and you and the bodega team will know everything about each other’s
lives and most intimate secrets. What you have together is sacred and will last
as long as you can both afford to stay in the neighborhood. Move away, then
come back a year or four later, and they’ll remember which Ritter Sport is your
favorite. I was once in my local bodega and the (very familiar) woman ringing me
up had one hand pressed against her jaw. After a minute, she cupped that hand
in front of her mouth and spit out a tooth. I know this with certainty because
she then smiled with relief and opened her hand to show me the tooth, and, for the first time ever, spoke to me: “Oh,
that’s better,” she sighed. I cannot guarantee this could happen to you and
even in my experience it is unusual, but it pretty much sums up the level of
trust and intimacy between a Regular and her bodega: just go right ahead and
spit out that tooth, honey. I’ll wait.
Because we don’t have cars and because anywhere we are is
usually an hour from home, the bodega is like New York City’s purse. Forgot a
little mini pack of Kleenex? Bodega. Need to pick up some beer or some flowers
on the way to a friend’s? Don’t schlep that shit from home: bodega it when
you’re like 3 blocks away. Out of some dumb food item? The bodega is guaranteed
closer than the grocery store. Need a breakfast sammie and a coffee and a pack
of gum? You’ll be in and out of the bodega in under four minutes. The bodega
sells, and has paper bags specifically sized to fit, individual cans or bottles
of beer, including tall boys, and they bag your beer in those without asking so
you can pop the top on your way out the door.
The bodega is New York City at its best, in some ways:
they’re everywhere, they have everything, they are home to absolutely ZERO
nonsense, and there is often a cat around. Of course, the cat is there because
of the rats, but best not to think on that. The bodega is also a landmark—meet
me at the bodega on 7th, next to the liquor store—it’s often open
early/late/24-hours, and those moments when you think, “Oh, shit, I need to get
[random bodega item],” and then, as you’re headed toward wherever you’re going,
scanning the storefronts, you see a bodega across the street? Those are the
moments when you truly exemplify everything ridiculous about being a New
Yorker, about this ridiculous city, because that’s when you do the math to
figure how many more blocks you have to go and whether, given the other
variables in play (neighborhood, time of day) there will be another bodega on your
way so you don’t have to waste time crossing the street.
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