7-Eleven Wants Americans to Love It as Much as the Japanese Do

The home of the Slurpee is now being supercharged by the pandemic

Illustration: Maria Chimishkyan

Let’s get something out of the way: You probably do not have the most positive memories of 7-Eleven. The weary-looking hot dogs and taquitos on mechanical rollers, the trauma of Slurpee brain freezes and parking lot heartbreaks past, the strange prominence of its stores in local crime stories. In many parts, 7-Eleven is practically shorthand for communal microwaves, American Spirits, and bland corporate sameness.

On a cultural level, it’s also tough to disentangle the chain from its less than stellar role in stoner comedies, horror stories, and, of course, an implicit link to The Simpsons (and its Squishee-peddling Kwik-E-Mart). Given that 7-Eleven is the largest company of its kind by a big margin, it also often serves as a stand-in for the entire convenience store industry. Depending on where you are, any place with Cheddar & Sour Cream Ruffles could reasonably be called a 7-Eleven. “Some people call it a convenience store. In New York, it’s the bodega,” explains Jason Diamond, author of suburb-themed cultural study The Sprawl. “But the 7-Eleven is a definite brand you know — sort of like how there are multiple search engines, but you always ‘Google’ something.”