At the Bodega, Customers Can Get Pork Rinds, Plantains and Just About Anything They Need. Here’s How These Stores Became a 'Community Anchor' of Latino Life

For immigrants, bodegas provide daily necessities and cultural connections to the homelands they left behind. The recent book “Bodega Stories” paints a picture of one Florida family’s history working in and operating the stores

Gabby Shell | Editorial intern

October 15, 2026 3:00 p.m.

As morning light fills New York City’s crevices, residents shuffle into their closest bodega, lining up for a fresh cup of coffee and a hot breakfast sandwich. These are only the first of hundreds of customers the bodeguero will serve throughout the day.

Offering everything from hot chicharrones and fresh plátanos to toothbrushes and toilet paper, bodegas are the caulk of city life—corner stores stuffed to the brim, filling the gaps between visits to the butcher, the bakery and other specialty shops. But their importance extends beyond being general stores: Bodegas are neighborhood hubs, crucial resources for Latino immigrants as they navigate life in a new country.

They “serve a purpose that’s a lot more than just giving people ingredients,” says Tey Marianna Nunn, associate director of content and interpretation for the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Latino. “Their real role is more of a community anchor.”

The term “bodega” is Spanish for “wine cellar,” and it later became associated with small general stores, central to life across Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Cuba and other places. These local, family-run shops carried daily essentials and premium goods, often imported from Spain, like olives and sardines.

For new immigrants from Spanish-speaking countries coming to the United States in search of greater economic prosperity, opening and working in bodegas was tough but steady, and it offered a taste of home.

After Puerto Ricans gained U.S. citizenship in 1917, many migrated to New York City and brought their bodegas, Nunn says. Early iterations of the stores offered Puerto Rican staples, such as cilantro and its cousin culantro. Puerto Ricans came to New York in even larger numbers during the mid-20th century.

These bodegas also functioned as spaces to gather, where migrants could navigate this new world in the comfort of their native language. Customers would stop in, grab groceries and chat while helping each other find jobs, new apartments and other necessities, Nunn says.

“They were a pipeline of familiarity, a place you could go to in a strange big city,” Nunn explains. “You can get your chisme [gossip], you can get your cafecito. And as people pass by, you start building a community and building a neighborhood.”

When those first few waves of immigrants left New York and fanned out across the country, they took these small stores—and the Latin American delicacies they carried—with them. While these stores may have different names—tienditas, papi stores or minimercados—they serve the same purpose as New York City bodegas, connecting immigrants to each other through food, culture and community.

In her new book, Bodega Stories, journalist and writer Amaris Castillo speaks to the people at the heart of these Latin American corner stores. Through a series of vignettes, Castillo provides a glimpse of the eclectic array of customers who frequent her parents’ bodega in St. Petersburg, Florida, where her Dominican family moved from New York.

For the customers she interviewed, “it might have just been another day of getting ingredients,” Castillo says, “but through talking, I was able to get them to share a lot more about their life.”

Once Castillo’s father arrived in New York City from the Dominican Republic in the 1970s, the first job he had was working at a bodega. During the second half of the 20th century, newly arrived Dominican immigrants took the helm of many of the original bodegas when the founding Puerto Rican owners retired. As New York City continued to diversify, bodegas became a citywide phenomenon no longer contained to just Latino enclaves. When Yemeni and other Arab immigrants came to New York in the late 20th century, they opened new bodegas, adding halal food to the traditional array of Latin American goods.

Bodegas continue to be part of the fabric of daily life across the country and especially in New York City, where people from all backgrounds stop in to get a hot sandwich, to pick up emergency items or to say hi to the neighborhood cat.

Castillo spoke to Smithsonian magazine about her experience chronicling her parents’ bodega and what the stories she recorded reveal about the broader role of these stores in the American Latino community and beyond.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

What’s your own history with bodegas?

I come from a family of bodegueros. Throughout my life, my parents have worked in and out of bodegas. When my dad first came to New York from the Dominican Republic at 18, he immediately started working at a bodega in Brooklyn owned by his uncle, Tío Bobito. My mom, she worked with my dad, she worked with her brothers. When I graduated university and couldn’t find a job, I actually ended up as a cajera, a cashier, at my parents’ bodega, Orlando Latin Market in St. Petersburg.

What separates the bodega from a typical corner store?

In bodegas, it’s often immigrants serving other immigrants. You’ll often hear a language that’s not English. I’ve often told my dad that when I walk into his store, I feel like I’m in a different country. There are products from all over Latin America—there are Colombian arepas, there are refried beans for your tacos. There are Peruvian products. There are decorations dangling from the ceiling from all over Latin America, gifts that customers have given my parents through the years. You walk in and you’re reminded [that] the people who shop here, they come from all over.

Your recently published book, Bodega Stories, highlights your family history and features customers from the store. What was your inspiration for this project?

I started my career as a newspaper reporter; what always attracted me most about that work were the human-interest stories. I’ve always loved listening to people talk about themselves and their lives. That led to the original “Bodega Stories” project: I would spend occasional mornings before my night shift as a reporter collecting stories. I would interview people, take their portraits and publish them on my website. In 2023, the project was on hiatus—major hiatus—when an acquiring editor at the University Press of Florida reached out. They were starting a creative nonfiction track at the time, and she wanted to know if I had any book ideas. A year later, I formally submitted a proposal to the press for a book about the bodega. My parents are nearing retirement age, and I figured now was the time to write this book. I was afraid of regretting it if I didn’t, and I felt the store deserved a lengthy written record.

The book is a collection of vignettes from your parents’ bodega. You separated it into five different sections, each named after a different part of the store. How did you make that choice?

That structure evolved naturally, deeper into the editing process. In the beginning, I had this huge collection of all these stories, these vignettes, I had gathered over the course of a year. My editor and I had the idea to structure the stories based on where the reporting took place. So, in the section “Down the Aisle,” those stories literally took place in or around the aisle. “La Caja”—I love that word, “the register”—those stories take place around the register. Having the structure based on location helps the viewer, and it leads them through the space around the bodega. I really like the section openers with the photos because the reader gets to a new section and gets a visual glimpse of this part of the bodega. It feels as if there’s a whole world in the store. It takes the reader through every crevice of it.

For many Americans, going to the grocery is a rather routine chore—you’re in and out. But these bodegas, like the one your parents run, seem more like community spaces or cultural hubs. Why do you think that is?

You step into these stores and you are immediately transported to a space where there’s more familiarity, where you’re hearing your native tongue. For example, my parents speak mostly Spanish in their store. These bodegas are where you find things you can’t find anywhere else: hair products from the Dominican Republic or a perfume Cuban women love. Over the years, you develop a rapport with your customers. They know they can get leche condensada, or condensed milk, from Walmart, but they also know they can get it from the bodega. They get my dad and his campy, corny jokes. There’s just that additional level of connection there that can be hard to find in other places these days.

In the age of massive chains and online shopping, small businesses like bodegas are increasingly at risk. What do you hope for the future of these mom-and-pop shops?

They offer human connection when so much of that is being lost. They also provide a livelihood for hardworking folks, and those people deserve to have this livelihood. I’ve seen, even with my own parents, they didn’t get to pursue the educational opportunities they could have, and that they should have. I’ve always wanted more for them, but I really admire what they’ve been able to build. They’ve built this cherished community cornerstone, this bodega, this business, this place that people have grown attached to. That’s not something you can just find online. It’s a place you have to physically go to. That’s what I’m hoping for the future mom-and-pop shops: that they stay and that they thrive. But it takes the community to support them and to keep them going.

One theme you highlighted in your book was the role of food in creating and maintaining these diverse cultures. Could you talk a bit more about that?

Food is such an important part of culture and an important part of cultural preservation. It’s something tangible, it’s something you prepare with intention, and it’s something that keeps you connected to your native culture. The acts of going to the bodega and picking up the ingredients for a specific meal—whether its Haitian or Dominican or Cuban—I think that is a beautiful expression of living out your identity, living out your true self. A lot is lost when you move to another country, but you can still search for those foods to keep your connection to the country that you’re from.

In the book, you have several encounters where you interact with people looking to prepare a specific cultural meal. What did it feel like to be a part of that ritual?

One of the stories that I think about is “Soup Joumou”—that’s the name of the chapter. It’s the story of Yanick, who is from Haiti, and she has been coming to the store for years. I met her on New Year’s Eve, and I had no idea the ingredients she was gathering were for soup joumou. There was something beautiful about how excited she was gathering these ingredients, how much anticipation she had about preparing this soup for her family. I stumbled into this beautiful story about a tradition this woman clearly cares so much about. I appreciated her letting me follow her around and giving me a glimpse of her world. That’s what I hope people take away from the book: Going to the bodega might feel like a mundane errand, but it has the potential to be so much more than that.

This whole book, it is a tribute to your community, but it’s also a tribute to your family, to your parents. Do you feel like working on this project changed your relationship to them?

I have always felt indebted to my parents, and I don’t know if this book helps with that feeling or not. I feel like this book is an offering from a daughter. I see all that you have done. I see all your work. I see all your sacrifices, and this is the best way I know how to honor that. Even so, I still feel like, “Is this enough? Is this a true repayment for all they’ve done for me?” I don’t know if it is, but I’m proud of having written this book, which is about the legacy they have built in this slice of Florida. I would love to see more stories like this. I told my family’s story, but it’s not the definitive Dominican story. It’s not the definitive immigrant story.

In your vignettes, working at the bodega is depicted as a labor of love. Can you describe what that means?

When I talk to my mom, she’s often tired. It could be her age, but I think a lot of it is the physical exhaustion she feels, being on her feet for hours at the bodega, navigating customer requests and complaints, working with a revolving door of vendors. It’s constant—it’s like a ping-pong of responsibilities at the store. Writing this collection, I saw how hard my parents work, how hard their employees work. It’s not easy. It takes an entire staff to carry the bodega: You have the carnicero [butcher]; you have the women in the front kitchen serving food. There’s usually a line of customers waiting for hot food. Alberto the cook is there at 5 a.m. cooking so the food can be ready when the bodega opens. There are the cajeras who check out everybody. There’s Francisco who stocks merchandise and puts everything in its place. It’s so much labor and so much work, and it reminds me of just how hard it is. The bodega life is hard. It’s grueling, but sometimes it’s all anybody can find.

Was there one person you interviewed for this book who really stood out to you?

Yes, Deisy and her tattoo of Cuba. She’s a former cashier [at my parent’s bodega] and she has a tattoo of the map of Cuba broken into its provinces. Underneath the map tattoo are waves. She told me about her complicated feelings for Cuba, how she feels this añoranza, or longing, for parts of Cuba, but that she doesn’t want to return until the government has changed. She’s a proud Cuban American; she got her citizenship several years ago. For me, she’s indicative of the overall story of this book: The immigrant story is varied, and you come here and you have to adapt and learn a new language. Still, you think about where you left, where you came from, and you want more for that place. The feelings are not always going to be nostalgic. In her case, she went through a lot of hardship in Cuba. But Cuba is still very much a part of her—so much so she has it inked on her skin.

Were there any stories that didn’t make it into the book?

There was this one older gentleman, he’s Cuban. He used to be a part of this crew that would hang out outside the bodega back when my dad had tables and chairs. They would get their cafés in the morning and nurse them all day long. They would hog the tables and chairs—they made it into their social club, which prevented people who bought hot food in the store from sitting there to eat and enjoy their lunch. But I think it speaks to the power of the bodega. They were all drawn to this place because they knew they would find each other there. They would get their cafecito, and then they could sit and just chat for hours.