Dazed and Confused in the Bodega

By Mateo Zárate

NYC bodegas are amazing. They are everywhere. They are open almost 24/7. They often have what you need in a pinch: a cold drink to relieve you on a humid summer afternoon (the “concrete jungle” metaphor is less romantic when the concrete is radiating intense heat), a bag of chips for the house party tonight (you will only be there for 20 minutes so beers aren’t worth it), a cream puff for your breakfast-on-the-run (essential fuel for a two-transfer commute where the threat of an emergency brake pull looms over you), and even a Pepto-Bismol single (which might save you from that chicken over rice that had a touch too much red sauce). If you’re lucky, the guy behind the counter might even call you “boss” or “brother,” which, let’s be honest, is all you need to brighten your day sometimes.

But bodegas are also intimidating. The food counter, specifically, stands defiant against common sense in a world of ultra-optimized, slop-bowl delivery systems like Chipotle. 

You walk inside the bodega around the corner, craving a sandwich. Maybe you are on your only break between classes, or maybe you partied a little too hard last night. In any case, you need an immediate high-density caloric infusion. Your instincts direct you to look at the laminated board that dominates the wall above the counter. It offers not so much “options” as a comprehensive, claustrophobic list of every possible permutation of processed meat. You see “The Godfather, Pt. II”, “The Yankee”, “The Broadway Blast”, “The Final Exam”, “The Mangione”, “The #4 (Hot)”, “The #4 (Cold)”, alongside a list of 25 “Cold Heroes” that are indistinguishable from the 18 “Hot Heroes” except for the presence of melted cheese. You do not even dare to glance at the salads, platters, pancakes, and, inexplicably, the “Cheeseburger Deluxe (w. Fries)” in the bottom-right corner, which no one has ever been seen ordering.

You keep scanning the board but somehow fail to parse the avalanche of information in front of you. As you struggle to decipher the semantic difference between a “roll” and a “hero”, the worst happens: you draw the attention of the deli man. Seemingly attracted by your fear and hesitation, he approaches. 

“What can I get you, boss?” he says. 

Is that annoyance in his eyes? Or is it just the blank stare of a man who has seen a million faces come and go from behind the counter? You prepare to mumble the name of a sandwich—any sandwich, come on, pick one and get out of there—when suddenly, a man in an orange safety vest materializes next to you and barks, “Ayo, lemme get “The Cutlet,” extra-crispy, heavy on the G.” 

“The Cutlet?!” Was that next to “The Salsalito Stunner?” What’s a “G?” Green peppers? Garlic? Gabagool? Clearly, the board is a decoy, devised to confuse the uninitiated. Some form of cryptic, unwritten insider language reigns supreme here, and you’re not in on the joke. Your anxiety quickly morphs into paralysis. 

But then, your training kicks in. You remember the countless TikToks you watched before moving to the city, and the hours spent scouring the internet for food recommendations. You are not as adrift as you thought. You know the one arcane conjuration that will free you from this nightmare. It is the most stereotypical sequence of words in the NYC lexicon, a cultural fail-safe, but it is also the one immutable truth in this universe of confusing variables.

You do not hesitate. You act.

“Hey, can I get a uuuh… baconeggandcheese saltpepperpketchup please?”