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We had a bodega where I grew up in Queens, but nobody called it that. If somebody left the park to pick up some bug juice or Bazooka Joes, they went to The Corner. It was as if everyone in the neighborhood held a meeting one day and took a vote — “Yes, all in favor of ‘The Corner,’ say I!” — and it was so.

Most places outside of New York City don’t understand what makes a bodega. There was a small shop on Milwaukee Avenue, about seven or eight blocks from my apartment in Chicago, that looked and acted like a bodega, but clearly wasn’t. The fact is, you should never have to walk seven or eight blocks to get to a bodega. If you have to walk further than a block or, God forbid, drive? That’s a convenience store. It doesn’t matter how many Colombian crackers they sell.

There was a bodega in my neighborhood in West Oakland. I can say this with certainty because I walked there every night, and on some nights, I bought those 100-percent sugar wafers that will be always be fifty cents, no matter what, until the day that I die. They spoke to me in Spanish and I nodded politely, worried that a Robbie Williams CD might fall out of my backpack. One day, on my way to get a fix of Diet Coke, I saw the flashing lights. There was a young man on the ground, convulsing in his own blood. I turned around and realized I’d have to find a new bodega. This one, as some are wont to be, turned out to be a drug front.

I found my bodega in Brooklyn by accident. It’s across the street from Choice Market, a French café that will probably feature soon on Stuff White People Like. Their pastries are delicious, I admit, but the coffee is arguably inedible. And for me to say that — well, that’s like a cokehead turning town a pusher by saying, “No, thanks. Your crack tastes burnt.” So I crossed the street and asked for a coffee. Our relationship was strictly business at first, but the longer I stayed in the neighborhood, the more that the sweet all-Muslim staff warmed up to me: They all know what I want from the deli, and exactly how I like my coffee. They ask me about current events. One man, whose gait is clearly reserved for that of a store owner, actually showed concern for me when I strolled into the store one night after eight o’clock.

“Are you just coming home for the day now?”

“Yes,” I drawled, obviously fishing for sympathy.

For as long as I stay in Clinton Hill, this will be my bodega — the new Corner — for two reasons: Because whenever I’m short on money, they let me take things and pay for it later. And because if I ever saw them handle another customer the way they treat me, I’m pretty sure I’d be jealous.

Photo: Emma