When I first moved to New York, I was enamored with the idea of brunch. Here, brunch rarely begins before 2, or most likely 3, and often involves a Mediterranean omelet and bistro seating. In practice, this breezy meal gives New Yorkers balance: go, go, go, get your shit done for five consecutive days, ease into Saturday, then spend your Sunday leisurely—lie about, catch up on Glee, have sex—until you get around to eating, then continue to do so with vitamin-enhanced booze for the rest of the day. So genius, so European. 

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to take the essence of brunch and adapt it to my budget. My friend and I stopped into a deli and bought dollar bagels and ice coffee, then walked to bar that was advertising drink specials on a sandwich board. Voila! We had all we needed: cheap booze, caffeine so we could stay awake and enjoy the cheap booze, something to coat our stomachs from this combo, and endless conversation.  

Bodega brunch is really an excuse to do what I do best, but on my terms: Happy hour.