Fette Sau

I'm not a huge barbecue guy. Partly, this is due to my hailing from the Northeast U.S., and my attendant lack of experience with the genre. But that's not the whole story. First of all, there's at least one pretty good BBQ place in the Boston area (Blue Ribbon BBQ), which I never visit when I go home (a sign that I'm not craving it, you see). Second of all, on my sole trip to the Deep South (aka "Scaryville), I visited a locally famous barbecue joint outside Atlanta with my ex-girlfriend and her parents. And--maybe it was the high expectations going on, or maybe it was the framed pictures on the wall of the restaurant's owners at the White House proudly serving up ribs to G.W. Bush--but I didn't come away very impressed.

Fast forward to 2007. Barbecue is suddenly all the rage in New York, though most southerners think it still sucks here. (As an aside, is there anywhere where more people complain about the lack of "authentic" this or that cusine than this city? I think it's because New York is supposed to be the best at everything, and when it isn't, people from some dumbshit small town say "I can't believe you can't find a decent (insert regional cuisine) here. New Yorkers are such a bunch of fucking whiners sometimes. And yes, I've been reading a lot of Chowhound lately.) Also, the Big Apple BBQ at Madison Square Park was quite disappointing in terms of taste, offensively long lines, and level of rip-offery.

ANYWAY, as a guy that enjoys food that tastes good, I decided I should at least one of the better establishments, The place I'd heard the most consistently good buzz about was Fette Sau in Williamsburg. My friend Dave had nothing but great things to say. So, after wanting to go for a long time, I finally made it last week after watching the Yankees get pounded in Game 1 of the ALDS (yee-haw).

At around 10:40, twenty minutes before closing time, we ventured into Fette Sau, which is in a large, garage-y space befitting its post-industrial neighborhood. You eat at communal benches (I usually don't like this, but for this type of grub it does seem appropriate). There's a large TV screen with a fireplace displayed, and after a few minutes of not looking directly at it, you sort of forget the difference between it and the real thing. Finally, there's an impressive selection of whiskey and beer behind the long bar next to the troughs of food.

Oh, yes, the food. The point of this post. With Dave's guidance, we ordered the pulled pork, ribs, pastrami, and bread. I ate that shit like I was a death row prisoner about to walk down the Green Mile. I inhaled it. It was flavorful and delicious. I especially enjoyed soaking the bread up with the pulled pork and ribs. That's all I can really describe--just go.

The next morning I felt as though someone had hit repeatedly hit me in the stomach with a hammer the night before. But you know what? It was worth it.