Gut Instinct: Thrift Whore
Daddy's thirsty, I said, as my girlfriend and I emerged fromour Brooklyn subway stop. Of late, Ive referred to myself as daddy, though, much to my mothers chagrin, we are not expecting children. Daddy wants a beer.
Understanding that a buzzed Josh is a content Josh, my girlfriend agreed to a bodega detour. We bypassed stacks of saltand-vinegar Utz chipstheir bright-red 99-cent stickers as alluring as the sirens songand stopped at the coolers. Several years back, beer at Crown Heights bodegas consisted of malt liquor, 24-ounce cans of Coors and the odd sixer of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale or Brooklyn Lagersuds seemingly as misplaced as that coyote on the Columbia campus.
These days, the neighborhoods new arrivals (read: recent college grads with fanciful facial hair and jeans as tight as sausage casings) have not cottoned to King Cobra. Bodegas started stocking microbrews from Harpoon, Speakeasy and Dogfish Head. I scanned the shelves, settling on a Stone IPA. Its a bracingly bitter West Coast ale with a pleasingly high alcohol contentbang for your buck. Except this banging beer was no bargain.
Come on, were hitting another bodega, I told my girlfriend, returning the bottle to its refrigerated home.
Uh, why? she asked. I had to admit, it was quite a reasonable question.
Because they raised their prices $.35 a bottle.They used to be $1.90. Now its $2.25, I spat out viciously, as if I were cursing someone.
Her mouth slackened. She gave me the kind of long, cold stare to which Ive become accustomed: Just who is this man Ive been dating?
Look, I can buy this same bottle for $2 at another bodega. Its only a block away. Lets go.
Lets not.You save yourself a quarter.
Im heading home.
I pondered protesting, but Ive learned to pick my battles. Ill wage a war of the words when it comes to, say, my right to patronize a strip-club steakhouse like Roberts Restaurant at Scores or take a road trip to a topless-waitress breakfast joint in Montreal. Trudging an extra block to save two bits? Ill happily concede defeat.
Now, I know what youre eager to utter: Great, another story about being a cheap Jew. Go on and bathe in your pile of tarnished pennies.Whats next? A story about your circumcision? Actually, I do have a funny tale about my second circumcision at age 13, involving a needle, chanting rabbis and the acquisition of C C Music Factorys debut CD. Another anecdote, another time.
Instead of organized religion, my penny-pinching has its roots in my upbringing. Ive been crazy about saving money ever since I helped my mom clip grocery coupons. Fifty cents off a box of Bisquick gladdened my little-boy heart as much as finding Ken Griffey Jr.s rookie baseball card in an Upper Deck pack. (Sorry, readers younger than 25, for the dated reference.) I embraced thrift whole cloth, evolving into a frugal teen who bought T-shirts at Salvation Army, recorded mix tapes off the radio and filched half-smoked cigarettes from ashtrays. Nothing like puffing a lipstickcovered Newport to make a teenager feel badass. Come college, I began applying my moms cost-conscious lessons at grocery stores, favoring dried beans instead of canned, generics over name brands. I tabulated each foodstuffs price per ounce to the second decimal place, employing the sort of higher-order math favored by savants. I created a mental Rolodex of the stores with the lowest prices on rice, which places sold lettuce for less. I thought nothing of driving to different shops if it meant saving a buckprovided that I didnt spend more on gas. Upon moving to New York, I sought out Chinatowns cheapest and best open-air produce markets (Forsyth St. betw. East Broadway & Canal St.) and butchers (Deluxe Food Market, 79 Elizabeth St. betw. Grand & Hester Sts., 212-925-5766). Soon, I discovered New Yorks secret, the key to a lengthy tenure in town:Though rent can be crippling, a paupers budget will permit you to eat like a king. Provided you dont get ripped off by bodegas that overcharge.Which brings me back to my nice, frosty beverage. Hows your beer? my girlfriend asked, watching me sip my Stone.
It is, I said, prepping my Borscht Belt punch line, a little rich for my taste.
-- How are you a cheap bastard? Spill the beans to [jbernstein@nypress.com](mailto:jbernstein@nypress.com).