When you're not from NYC, there's a certain insecurity that never quite goes away. Like, āshould I already know how to do this?ā That was me, two years into living here, feeling semi-local at my bodega next door, but still quietly preparing in my head just to be sure.
It was late. Post Model/Actriz concert. Starving. Iām with a friend and we stop at my spot for a chopped cheese, my small badge of assimilation. Thereās a new guy working the grill, and heās mid-smoothie prep, not acknowledging me at all. Iām not sure if heās on break or justā¦ busy? So I hover. Wait. Do the classic uncertain smile-stance.
Eventually, I order. Minimal response. He starts cooking.
Then, this older woman walks in and gently asks me what to order here. Me and my friend agree, chopped cheese, no doubt. She nods, curious. We chat a little. All is well.
But then, after a few quiet minutes, she yells over from the counter asks, āHow do you order it?ā
Instead of just saying āchopped cheese on a hero, everything, picklesā like a normal person I went into an exacting breakdown of how to order food and navigate the mysterious rhythms of bodega etiquette:n āWell, first, you wait. Heāll make eye contact when heās ready. Then you state your intention clearly. Donāt rush him. Then say: chopped cheese, everything, pickles. Hero roll. But again, you have to wait for the signal.ā
I finish explaining and my friend goes: āI donāt think thatās what she meant.ā
She just wanted to know what I ordered, of course not the entire rite-of-passage for ordering food.
We all laughed. She got her order. I got my sandwich. As a non-American itās hilarious to me that I turned a simple question about what I ordered into a full-on lesson in bodega anthropology. Glad I was still helpful on her quest for the first chopped cheese.
