How To Order A Bacon, Egg, And Cheese At A Bodega During A Snowstorm

Life lessons from New York City

I’m not one of those New Yorkers who think that New York City is the center of the universe. I know there are plenty of wonderful places to live. This country is full of big cities, small towns, and beautiful rural communities.

The concrete canyons of Manhattan aren’t for everyone, some people like actual canyons, quiet misty mountains, or endless beaches. I have lived in New York City for twenty-five years and it is my home but I know the vast majority of humanity does not live in this cramped, crowded metropolis floating off the east coast of North America.

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know how to order a bacon, egg, and cheese at a bodega during a snowstorm. I accept that you, the reader, may live in Miami or Albuquerque, or Missoula. Those are all great towns, by the way. My grandfather preached for a while in Albequerque. He was a Baptist pastor.

And just because you don’t live in Harlem, as I do, doesn’t mean you can’t learn from my experiences. I think everyone should know how to order a bacon, egg, and cheese at a bodega during a snowstorm. And this applies to any bodega in the city, not just my corner joint, which is near the 125th Street 1 train station.

I suppose I should explain what bacon, egg, and cheeses are and, as the saying goes if you know, you know. It is impolite to assume everyone is from New York City. So bacon, egg, and cheeses are what folks call cheap eats. What are the core ingredients? Well, I think you can figure that out.

To be clear, I’m not writing about a fast-food breakfast sandwich. This is not an Egg McMuffin or microwaved Dunkin Donuts breakfast slop and don’t get me wrong there is a time and a place for both I mean, my lord, have you ever had a McGriddle? The science that went into infusing a sort of pancake bun with powerful maple syrup flavor is remarkable, a triumph of casual chemistry. But no. The NYC bacon, egg, and cheese is special.

Forget what you see on television shows or in movies about the Big Apple. Yes, Gotham can sparkle. There are moments of glamour, especially if you're rich. But this is a working person’s city. We’re all on the go. Hustling. The foods that define NYC are foods you can fold, grab, or eat over a trashcan. Pizza, tacos, beef patties, and sandwiches, especially sandwiches. And the alpha sandwich is the bacon, egg, and cheese, usually pronounced as one long gooey word — baconeggandcheese — that you can cram in one efficient exhale. Don’t tell the boys down at Katz’s or Defonte’s in Red Hook or Astoria’s Sal, Kris & Charlie’s, each of those places makes a fucking great sandwich. Pastrami, Italian sub, fried eggplant, god damn. But the king of cheap New York go, go, go food is the bacon, egg, and cheese, on a roll. A roll. Buttered!

I’m not talking about dinner rolls or the dough that comes in a tube that turns golden after a few minutes in an oven. In New York City, one of the most basic forms of sustenance are plentiful, slightly stale but always chewy, rolls that taste a little bit like the old country. These rolls must be buttered and I wouldn’t argue with that command if I were you, it’s for your own good. They’re delicious with a cup of slightly watery, blistering hot bodega coffee.

I happen to think bacon, egg, and cheeses should be served on a buttered roll too but that’s controversial. Just a heads up: if the deli guy doesn’t know you, or your secret heart, the deli guy won’t butter your bacon, egg, and cheese roll unless you ask. So ask. I recommend it.

Is the bacon, egg, and cheese the best sandwich in America? I don’t know about that. This is a country blessed with sandwiches. The New Orleans Po'Boy. Chicago’s Italian Beef. A French Dip in Los Angeles. Those are legends. God bless. The bacon, egg, and cheese is as essential as the BLT or the cheesesteak, but this is just my humble opinion.

Now, where are these bacon, eggs, and cheese best prepared? A local bodega. Bodega is a Spanish word that translates, roughly, to cellar or wine cellar but it means, at least in New York, corner grocery store-slash-deli. I have lived in parts of New York that were heavily Greek and Bangladeshi and Italian and every corner store run by a Greek or a Bangladeshi or an Italian was called a bodega.

I am a child of the suburbs and have a soft spot for 7–11s, bright and colorful corporate mini-markets, and once, back when I was drinking, I ate a “Big Bite” hot dog while swaying and then tried to fill a Big Gulp with the free chili, which was “all you can eat.” Rarely, and I want you to learn from my mistakes, but rarely is it ever really “all you can eat.” It’s a journey not a destination and proprietors of establishments that promise “all you can eat” are really promising three servings, maybe four, so have some shame, fellas. There were years when the booze allowed me to live a shameless life, for instance, I almost filled that Big Gulp with meat slurry before the poor midnight shift worker chased me away. My point is a 711 is not a bodega, but it is still good. America needs both.

In New York City, bodegas are local businesses that sell exactly what you need at any hour of the day, in any weather. Even during the apocalypse. On 9/11, the dude who ran my bodega in Queens gave me a shot of his homemade moonshine. During the spring of 2020, my corner bodega stretched yards of plastic wrap across jury-rigged scaffolding they built around the cash register and sandwich bar. They stayed open during the worse of that pandemic when the city was almost completely shut down. Those guys weren’t heroes, mind you, they needed to stay open. Make a living. They were masked and if you needed toilet paper, Mountain Dew, and Rice-a-Roni at 3 AM they were there for you.

For 25 years, whenever a snowstorm descends on New York, my mom has called me and told me to run to the store to get milk and bread before everyone panics and stips the shelves bare. She lives in Texas. And every year I have to tell her: if I need a loaf of immortal Wonder Bread, I can slowly trudge through the snow to the bodega, buy the bread and, also, Epsom salts, a can of condensed clam chowder, and a bag of chili and lime flavor chicharrones.

Now, please, keep in mind that not every bodega has a griddle. That’s fine. That’s still a good bodega. But those that do are special, and they’re all good. There are 8,000 bodegas in NYC and I’d say at least half or more employ multiple deli guys who can make a bacon egg and cheese, or a chopped cheese, or whatever the fuck you want. A knish? Go for it. The three most important professionals in my life are my therapist, my super who treats my ancient building like it was Vatican City, and my deli guy, who knows me. He really does. Once I forget to order mayo on my afternoon favorite, turkey and provolone, and instead of asking me if I wanted it, he slathered it on anyway and then asked me “you okay buddy?”

Every bodega has a cat, too. I don’t know if every bodega has one but they’re famous for being temples of the cat. The simplest theory is those bodega owners like cats, especially because the beasts are natural-born vermin terminators but I prefer to ponder a different theory: what if cats are ancient spirits capable of disrupting the usual order of space/time? What if the cats that slinked through the palaces of the Pharaoh are still with us, in some way. What if, hear me out, the answer to the question “Which came first, the bodega or the cat?” is “they built the bodega around the cat.” That’s what I’m saying.

I think everyone should be caught up. We’re all speaking the same language. Back to the point. I am a teacher but I’m also a student.

So there was a short blizzard this past Saturday and I was hungry. I was cozy inside and I had plenty of food but I wanted a bacon, egg, and cheese. So I counted out four dollars and fifty cents in quarters from my loose change jar, put on my boots, and walked through the snow to the corner. Most bodegas take credit cards but all bodegas accept laundry money.

I am happy to report everyone behaved well at my bodega. It was crowded but orderly. We all comported ourselves well. There are ancient ways that still work.

Here’s how to order bacon, egg, and cheese at a bodega during a snowstorm. First rule: be cool. Make sure to knock any snow off your boots and be cool. John Cassavetes cool. Cool like a bodega cat. Second, if someone is standing in front of the counter ask “you in line?” Always ask “you in line?” Never assume anything. Assholes are people who don’t see anyone else but themselves and force me to say “yo, there’s a line” or, if the person throws attitude, “there are two people behind me, jerkoff.”

Be aware of others. In general. This is life. The cosmos has laws. Obey them. There’s a line. When you order, make eye contact with the deli dude and don’t dawdle. Don’t ask for a menu or, like, think. There’s a line. Be considerate, dipshit. It’s a bodega you should know what you want before you get to the head of the line. Then tell the deli guy what you want, fast. Enunciate. Yes, while wearing a mask. Our ancestors fought bears, you can speak up while wearing a mask. Bacon, egg, cheese. On a roll. Look you can have it on a bagel if you want but that’s a different thing. That’s another essay.

Your bacon, egg, and cheese order can take as long as five minutes so use that time to meditate. Breathe deeply. Listen to your blood. Do not ask yourself unhappy questions like “what if” or “remember when.” Imagine you have Swamp Thing feet and let roots grow down, deep into the earth, and allow yourself to be rooted, in the moment. Ignore the hissing of the griddle and the ring of the bell above the door as customers come in and out. Enjoy life for a second and, maybe, grab a bag of Takis for later. I call that “self-care.”

Your BEC, an abbreviation I don’t love, will be ready soon enough. The cheese in a bacon, egg, and cheese is American cheese. A couple of yellow-flavored squares. The eggs are somewhere between rubbery and scrambled and rubbery and omelet. The bacon was first fried a few hours before who knows, and it is reheated and fatty and overdone, meaty bubblegum. The result is a hot, salty, melty, eggy bacon bomb smushed between two ersatz Kaiser roll halves. Bliss. And the journey is also the destination.

While you wait, consider this: gender is fashion. Like capes or boots. It’s social choreography, and for some, they have dance moves inside them that are totally unique to who they are because we’re all different. Isn’t that nice?

I know that masculinity can be suffocating for some, and for others, it’s their entire reality. There are just some dudes to whom trucks and guns are their entire personality and that’s great. Good for them. A few of those dudes also confuse toughness with callousness and, you know, fuck those dumbbells. But the best of the virtues traditionally associated with men can be found while ordering a bacon, egg, and cheese in a bodega. I am at my most noble when I patiently wait for my breakfast (NOTE: BECs aren’t just for breakfast.)

There are so many different ways to express one’s gender and those wonderfully diverse identities should be respected and celebrated. This is a heavy life and one way to lighten this temporary load is to accept people for who they are, to open your hearts to others who are not like you, and to welcome them into your world and life. It’s a small thing but let others be. That said, I invite you to, for a moment, order a bacon cheese, and egg as if you identify as a dude: Be polite, be firm, don’t fuck around. This is a serious — delicious — business. Smile on the inside. “I’m a gruff bro.”

Whenever I say “act like a man” I mean it tongue-in-cheek. But it’s also a legitimate invitation as if I’m loaning you the Phantom of the Opera’s cape. G’wan. Wear it. Twirl. Take it off whenever you want.

Do you identify as a dude? Great. Me too. Remember: we are so much more than our gender. I am not defined by macho stereotypes. But there are times I perform maleness. Absolutely. For instance: I ordered a bacon, egg, and cheese the other day like I was on a mission. I was assertive but dutiful. It took me fifteen minutes door to door. Normally, I’d eat the sammich on my way to the train but I wanted to douse it in Frank’s RedHot sauce because my people are from the Lone Star State.

When you order a bacon, egg, and cheese pretend you’re a no-nonsense lumberjack, strong and silent, it’s fun. Are you a strong and silent lumberjack? Got it. I respect that. Try being a delicate flower or an android with a heart of gold or a bashful minotaur for a few minutes. Now order your bacon egg cheese.

Okay so when the deli guy hands you your order you have three options: you can either say “thanks,” or give him a head nod, or both. All three are acceptable but you must acknowledge his work. Pay the cashier. Paying in quarters? Count them for him. Give him a nod, too. If there is a snowstorm, say something like “it’s really coming down” or just say “see ya ‘round.” You’ll see him again, in a few hours.

This is how you order a bacon, egg, and cheese. I have seen it done poorly. I have watched a fully grown brat step in front of a local grandma and order an egg-white omelet wrap and I gave him the evil eye. This was years ago. I haven’t lifted the curse. Probably won’t.

If you do not live in NYC feel free to use these tips in your everyday life. Be nice. Mind your manners. Have a purpose, even if your purpose is ordering a perfect sandwich. Think before you speak, and speak clearly. Don’t be a fuckface, follow the rules. We’re all in this together. Be cool, no matter where you live.