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Outlet: Thrillist

I got homesick in the narrow-ass soup aisle of a Key Food in Williamsburg five years ago. I was holding a can of vegetable chowder — disappointment incarnate — and standing in the middle of the narrow ribbon of tile in the no man’s land of a no man’s grocery store. It was a rainy night. The linoleum squeaked beneath the wet shoes of shoppers as they impatiently shouldered past. Or, tried to. Canyon walls of broth, stew, and bouillon soared skyward. One normal-sized person could comfortably walk between them with shoulders squared; two normal-sized people could wedge politely by one another, as long as they did that crowded-bar move where you bring your arms up above your shoulders. I am not normal-sized, and there were a bunch of us. The aisle was jammed.

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