Reaching for the Eby Street Bodega’s door handle evokes a slew of memories. If this were a movie, the montage would linger on the version of me that worked here. A Brio-guzzling, prosciutto-stuffed delinquent with a penchant for reading during lull periods and hand-writing orders and a secret knowledge of the exact formula to satisfy a Thursday or Saturday regular ordering ‘the usual.’ In those days, the Bodega I knew was a curated selection of …
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