Thursday, June 9, 2011
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Straight to my Pies 'n Thighs
As I leaned back from the red & white checked table cloth a certain lyric came to mind from the highly under-appreciated Young MC;
Food is served and your stone cold munchin,
Music comes on, People start to dance,
But then you ate so much your nearly split your pants.
That was the feeling at the inaugural Monday night adventure of Little John & Squeaky at
Pies 'n Thighs, the newly reopened Williamsburg comfort food joint. It was our first foray into what hopefully will become a weekly outing with a revolving cast of bandits and gorditos.
Somehow we lucked out on this night and ended up with a table full of 6 beautiful lady friends. Fried chicken and good lookin' chicks. Yeah.
That I was reminded of a song from youth was not simply attributed to my state of portly repose, but to the fact that the food also had a certain made-by-mama feel that was at once transporting and accessible.
The beer list was as expected. A few decent locals and the inevitable kitsch & wink-wink tallboy Budweiser. I had a Pacifico (been on a Mexican beer binge of late) others had the Kelso Pilsner, just something to prepare the pallet.
Rather swiftly the wave of grub came crashing over us. There were little Hush Puppy nuggets, golden and crispy slapped with some light and creamy tartar sauce and a squeeze of lemon. Much lighter than most HP's.
The baskets were the real deal. The brisket was worthy. Placed atop a perfectly grilled and buttery Texas toast. Pulled Pork was tender. But the real winner was the Fried Catfish. The fish was light, the batter adhered to every bite. No bottom dweller aftertaste that sometimes ruins a good Catfish. I would love to go back for a Po' Boy style sandwich with the Catfish between that delicious toast.
As expected, the Fried Chicken was right on. Nice crunch on the skin. Juicy bites of chicken.
I was a bit nervous that they would skimp on the sides, being a little hipster outpost, but the servings were more than ample. Overall, none of the sides were knockout. The beans were solid (No Pork?), greens were some welcome ruffage, Mac 'n cheese was cheesy, watermelon salad refreshing. I guess the best part about the sides was that I felt that each of them could have been done by mom. There was care in each, a sometimes familiar lack of salt, but in general a welcome addition to the meal.
The pie's were hit or miss. Chocolate-Peanut Butter was so rich and thick, I felt like my parent's golden retriever trying to get the last bit off the roof of my mouth. The key lime was best, if simply for the welcome hit off acid and lightness. Banana Cream, eh. (I will be back for rhubarb though, mark my words).
As the last plate was cleared, I leaned back in my chair & surveyed the scene. A little carnage and shrapnel strewn about the table. Empty beers. Greasy lips. Satiated smiles. Sorry girls, no dancing tonight.
A nice beginning. A real family meal.
Food is served and your stone cold munchin,
Music comes on, People start to dance,
But then you ate so much your nearly split your pants.
That was the feeling at the inaugural Monday night adventure of Little John & Squeaky at
Pies 'n Thighs, the newly reopened Williamsburg comfort food joint. It was our first foray into what hopefully will become a weekly outing with a revolving cast of bandits and gorditos.
Somehow we lucked out on this night and ended up with a table full of 6 beautiful lady friends. Fried chicken and good lookin' chicks. Yeah.
That I was reminded of a song from youth was not simply attributed to my state of portly repose, but to the fact that the food also had a certain made-by-mama feel that was at once transporting and accessible.
The beer list was as expected. A few decent locals and the inevitable kitsch & wink-wink tallboy Budweiser. I had a Pacifico (been on a Mexican beer binge of late) others had the Kelso Pilsner, just something to prepare the pallet.
Rather swiftly the wave of grub came crashing over us. There were little Hush Puppy nuggets, golden and crispy slapped with some light and creamy tartar sauce and a squeeze of lemon. Much lighter than most HP's.
The baskets were the real deal. The brisket was worthy. Placed atop a perfectly grilled and buttery Texas toast. Pulled Pork was tender. But the real winner was the Fried Catfish. The fish was light, the batter adhered to every bite. No bottom dweller aftertaste that sometimes ruins a good Catfish. I would love to go back for a Po' Boy style sandwich with the Catfish between that delicious toast.
As expected, the Fried Chicken was right on. Nice crunch on the skin. Juicy bites of chicken.
I was a bit nervous that they would skimp on the sides, being a little hipster outpost, but the servings were more than ample. Overall, none of the sides were knockout. The beans were solid (No Pork?), greens were some welcome ruffage, Mac 'n cheese was cheesy, watermelon salad refreshing. I guess the best part about the sides was that I felt that each of them could have been done by mom. There was care in each, a sometimes familiar lack of salt, but in general a welcome addition to the meal.
The pie's were hit or miss. Chocolate-Peanut Butter was so rich and thick, I felt like my parent's golden retriever trying to get the last bit off the roof of my mouth. The key lime was best, if simply for the welcome hit off acid and lightness. Banana Cream, eh. (I will be back for rhubarb though, mark my words).
As the last plate was cleared, I leaned back in my chair & surveyed the scene. A little carnage and shrapnel strewn about the table. Empty beers. Greasy lips. Satiated smiles. Sorry girls, no dancing tonight.
A nice beginning. A real family meal.
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