Never has the lure of a Bud tallboy driven me to such depths. I risked trichinosis, giardia, hook worm, beriberi, scurvy and an acute case of crotch rot even passing over the threshold of this roughneck bodega in search of the evermore elusive twenty ounce domestic can of lager. And there it was. Encased in glass and gleaming like the godhead incarnate. But suddenly the shabbiness of my surroundings–with its wet cardboard stink and stock from 2003 soured me on the idea (that truly never was) of .6 of a liter of beautiful lunchtime libation. Why my attention was then grabbed by the lunch counter is beyond me. Perhaps it was the new tetanus raging inside my quickly bloating colon. I quickly ordered a smoked turkey on a roll with some trimmings. I was clearly being compelled by powers greater than myself. I saw gloves on those non-honey-mustard-havin’ workers and felt a smidge better, but was still the only dude in the place who didn’t work outside, and with his hands. I ran out and could instantly feel the germs scream in the filtered sunlight and fall away in waves. I’m happy to report that to this day I am still attached to all of my major organs, and the sandwich really wasn’t bad at all. Proving once again that you can’t judge a bodega by its roach poop to turkey ratio. [MF]
468 9th Ave.