My morning started in the bodega, a lively market on the corner of Howard and Sumpter filled with Yankees-capped lurkers making the occasional purchase. You know, maybe one out of every five. A mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic ricocheted like misplaced electricity, the only sounds audible over twangy bachata tracks turned up a little too high. My order was a predictable one—egg and cheese on a roll with ketchup and ‘picante’—but it was the presentation that left an impression. Unfurling ribbons of ripped aluminum, I found my breakfast vessel cut in half. There had been no discussion in the shop, no agreement or head nod, but there it was, splayed in two.

I didn’t think much of it until I ordered an Italian sub a few days later and found, once again, a sandwich in a pair of pieces. Then a falafel, parted. A bagel, sliced and then split down the middle. It’s a cut that, in any other city, warrants some dialogue. But in NY? No, somehow that display is accepted without a second thought.

I have to admit, the gesture has grown on me. In a world of consumption—and being told how to consume—halves suddenly add options. One for me, one for you. One for now, one for later. One with hot sauce, one with…whatever that guy has. Sure, it’s the same sandwich, but the experience is something different entirely.

Like so many things in this city, it’s an idiosyncrasy that’s been adopted into law. Ask around and most folks won’t see the big deal. Ask again, and the answers are rarely scientific. “It’s hard to look good while eating a whole hamburger,” a friend once told me with a shrug. Maybe it was that simple. After all, who wants to look awkward over lunch?