Food is (Katy Perry and a Bloated Pouch)

I always thought it was contrived to eat a greasy platter of syrupy divinity after a sloppy night of one too many Coors Lights… but then I listened to Katy Perry’s Firework after bloating up to the size of a li’l Brooklynite Cubano Porker, doubting that I’d ever be able to fit into a pair of 32x32s again, and realized that all things contrived just generally suck in general- because no matter how tossed you are or whatever, shit’s always gonna be contrived.

Maybe that’s what makes us such an evolutionary species. That and the fact that now, more than ever, men are finally learning to never wear stripes on stripes.

Pies ‘N’ Thighs – 166 4th Street, Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

  I’ve always had an on and off appreciation for the food in Williamsburg, mostly because it’s been so greatly affected by the culture where I sincerely believe that in most cases, it’s the other way around. Here, restaurants share the same industrial fonts, the same artisan woven cabinets, hard wood floors speckled with paint and scraped with pebbles that were probably artisan too. They’re named with heroin-chic simplicity or remarkably embellished french words or artisan thematic images- ‘a thousand picnics’. College Graduates majored in English and Applied Anthropology are cooking chicken and waffles, croque-monsieurs, or sporting cuban espresso prepared and served the traditional way.

For the record- traditional cuban espresso is served in tiny styrofoam cups or little twinkle-toe espresso cups you buy at a cuban drug store for three dollars right next to the Cuban Tuna and the Cuban Pajama. This is a fact. And it has not been done in Williamsburg.

Regardless, Williamsburg is a treasure in it’s own way sporting some really good food and drink and watering holes.

For the hangover cure (or not…) hit up Pies ‘N’ Thighs. You got this moment when you enter the diner and you’re hit up by a bunch of eyes wondering if your jeans are naturally distressed. Regrettably, mine weren’t, and even more regrettably, I came with an actual appetite that couldn’t be compromised with half an onion and half an avocado.

The front dining room is small and quaint and lined with non-identical chairs that probably perfectly match the desired decorum- but walk past the pedestal of donuts and the kitchen and you find yourself outside in what I’ve been able to describe as Brooklyn’s Alhambra. brick arches support the tin roof and open up for us an open air dining room flowing with South Williamsburg sunrise and shine and air. Choose your table and you’re set with some hot sauce and it’s off to the firehouse.

Coffee’s fine. The Pecan Crumble Donut is a primitively-speaking glory hole of Moist Cake Donut with a coating of granulated grandeur that I figure has got a mix of brown sugar, molasses, and pecan.

I gotta start taking pictures.

Following that- the Chicken Sammy, a little too tough chicken meat is revitalized by cool ranch, avocado lightly sprinkled with pepper, carmelized onion right below a thick slice of juicy, tender, and tough bacon. Served with fries. It’s a hell of a mess with the ranch dressing because it gets on the fingers and runs on and off the bun, but also because I felt at times I lost taste of the Pepper Jack cheese that kinda just sold it to me. I alost wished the cheese could’ve been served on top of the steaming hot chicken in lieu of the bottom of the bun where it just stood there, waiting miserably to be consumed. I suppose I could’ve just moved the cheese- but, well, yeap.

It did the trick. The Chicken and Waffles did too. Though they were buckwheat waffles and for some reason I’m convinced all of Williamsburg is fetishizing all about buckwheat right about now the same way they wept and leaked over quinoa last spring.

Now I am bloated and I am still hungover and I am hoping, praying, to the skies and to the pisser that I’m able to focus with all the ranch in me clogging up my pores and desensitizing my taste buds.

I think I’m gonna hit up some laundry, then go for a run across the Williamsburg Bridge, maybe twice. I swear to you that bridge has the most character out of any other bridge on the East River. It’s big, it’s bad, people scribble whatever the hell they want on it, and the structural towers just reek of piss and titanic greatness. It also doesn’t try to be anything else.

Dumplings tonight. D.C. tomorrow. Gonna pop up a twitter.



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