Bodegas like cats.

Hurricane Sandy is on its way and I’m taking it as seriously as my bank account’s letting me.

I recently booked a month trip to Iceland and killed all of my savings. Eventually, it’s going to be a new blog venture for me. Ultimately, the trip is going to encompass a month in Iceland with me, hiking on my own, approximately 600 miles.

So, I live in the West Village and my apartment’s a block away from the mandatory evacuation zone for the upcoming storm. Now, my apartment is located directly across the street from a D’Agostino’s; probably the most overhyped, overpriced supermarket in all of Manhattan- their floors are lined in carpet and their automatic doors have a three second delay. There’s generally only one cashier operating the checkout aisle and typically four more of them talking about that guy being stuck scanning all the cans of lentils I used to buy.

But they do care about their customers. The supermarket works off a point system. Over there, a jar of peanut butter costs you 7 dollars. But, if you used the point system, buying enough 7 dollar jars of peanut butter could land you with enough points to ultimately buy that same jar of peanut butter for a reduced rate, sometimes by a dollar, but mostly by 49 cents.

I hate it there. I detest it. From the Red and Black color scheme to the over-saturated image of a tomato riper than all of the store’s produce combined; it’s everywhere, that tomato, and it’s just sticking it’s overzealous, ripe ass, right at you saying, ‘got ya bitch, charged you seven dollars for dat skippy’. 

In fact, the last time I thought I landed a deal over there I was buying beef cutlets for $2.49. The strips weren’t even an inch in width and squirmed into reduction at mid-heat on the skillet. The smell lasted for hours, and though I propped my window open to let the smoke out, I doubt D’Agostino’s could even notice that they were the cause for my piss of a dinner.

So I stopped going, finally.

I’ve been going to a local bodega over on Hudson Street, between Morton and Barrow. It’s next to Henrietta Hudson, the lesbian bar with the bouncer and the giant outdoor heater in the Winter time. Great place.

As for the bodega: small and tight; there’s about five aisles in about thirty feet of length; they’ve managed to cram the essentials of every major food group into it. There’s also a petting zoo, as cats loiter around by 24 oz. bottles of Stella. One kitty in particular likes hiding underneath the Ajax and Cheese Sticks.

kitty don’t play.

It’s open 24 hours and I can land a bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll at any given time of the week. Best part, you could be brownout drunk one evening, wake up in bed with a bag of munchies and a wrapper of a bacon, egg, and cheese; know that at some point or another you went to the bodega, then go back there that same night, and be treated like you were always their little prince. “You had a good time the other night, no?” They ask. “Yes, yes I did. Lemme get another roll and a couple ounces of coleslaw.” 

Gotta get it.

They also take debit and credit cards- with no minimum purchase. I actually bought a single bottle of beer there, one time.

It’s become my go-to place for Hurricane preparations. they had everything I needed; Brooklyn Lager Oktoberfest, Cans of baked beans, Boyardee Spaghetti & Meatballs, Chulula Hot Sauce, Pop Tarts.

I paid with my debit card, proudly, and the Ajax kitty purred his way over to me. It’s a family place.

They wished me luck during the hurricane. They’re staying open during the storm because they wanna keep an eye open for anybody who might need to pop inside for some groceries or a morning bagel.

With that kinda devotion, I’d like to say I’m okay with trucking out into the storm tomorrow and stopping by.

But then again, I’ve got enough Pop Tarts and Baked Beans to last me a week. And while I’m always craving some meaty, salty, cheesy, Midas-touch-to-the-‘T’ goodness; I’ve got a debt to pay with my Ma: to live a little longer till my college loans start to kick in and she has full liberty to whoop my ass.



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