Big shout to Washington Heights, my old neighborhood.
Jin’s was there near the corner when I came up the stairs from the A. It was a lot of stairs. I know the 181st station isn’t the deepest in the system (I believe that honor goes to an F stop somewhere), but from the platform it was 20 steps to the balcony, then six long sets more up to the turnstiles and then another flight up to the sidewalk. The escalators sometimes worked. By the time the rushour crush and I emerged from deep underground, we were cranky and tired from our uptown commutes and just wanted to go home for dinner.
In the northern Manhattan food desert, Jin’s was a 24-hour cornerstore oasis. I stopped there every evening and brought home something fresh. Jay, the cashier, and I were on good terms. If I was short a few bucks, he knew I was good for it. He was there every night, working for his dad, Jin. Jay would be watching korean anime and old martial arts flicks on his portable dvd player while he rang you up. There was no scanner at the register, just Jay and an adding machine. Nothing I bought ever cost the same thing twice. Jay would goodnaturedly give me shit for refusing a plastic bag and instead piling my groceries into my purse. I’m just going across the street, I’d tell him.