“Glorified Popeye’s,” he muttered. “No it’s more special than that,” I said. We both fell to the task of devouring fried chicken down to the bone. Maybe I thought it was special because of the setting—a summer night with a hint of fall, after the most photogenic sunset the city had seen in months; the JMZ train rumbling not-unpleasantly overhead, a beer cooling in my hands. But on second thought, maybe it really was the chicken.

My chicken box ($11), which was served on a plate, came with three pieces of brined, deep-fried chicken. Lightly crisp, golden crust (not too greasy), a bitable prison for tender, juicy meat. Umami-receptors-screaming-hell-yes, belt-loosened-to-first-notch, satisfaction. Pies n’ Thighs also has a pulled pork box, fried catfish box, chicken brisket sandwich box, and burger, but I can vouch for none of these. Just get the fried chicken!

The chicken box also came with a choice of side and a biscuit. Since they were out of hush puppies, I chose grits, and my associate chose collard greens. What passed next can only be described a mutual flicker of disapproval for the other’s taste in Southern side dishes. The grits were fine–a creamy baseline for fried chicken savoriness–at least around the edges. I did not appreciate the squirt of hot sauce soaking in the middle. It’s like putting hot sauce on mashed potatoes; sure, you can do that, but should you? The collard greens were allright, if you like greens seasoned with plenty of salt and pork. The biscuit tasted like it had been baked much earlier that day and had been patiently waiting my arrival. But since it was otherwise a fine specimen, I liked it well enough. I didn’t expect much from a side of peaches and cilantro ($4), and it pretty much met my expectations. Maybe this combination works in a salsa, but I thought that the perfectly lovely peach wedges would have been better off left unadulterated by cilantro. Still, none of the sides were bad, and I came dangerously close to not having room for pie.

I ordered a slice of key lime and my associate ordered banana cream ($4.50/each). When our slices arrived the waitress switched them so the banana cream settled in front of me. When my associate promptly pulled it back across the table, and sent the key lime sliding my way, I realized that perhaps I should have ordered differently. But since I’ve been forged by the fire of many years of snacking, I tucked away my pie without complaint. The key lime filling was suitably tart and creamy, but the pie would have been 100% better had the graham cracker crust not been soggy.  The banana cream slice was far better. I did sense something in the banana filling that tasted suspiciously instant-puddingy, but I merely noted it and moved on to enjoyment.

I have a feeling I’ll be back. Pies n Thighs is not a fried chicken “event” like the $100 Momofuku chicken dinner, or trek-worthy, like a soul food meal in Harlem. But it’s pretty likely I’ll be in Williamsburg some evening, wandering from one place to the next, and it will strike me that what I really want right now is some plain, unpretentious, and tasty fried chicken. Without setting foot in a Popeye’s. And this time I will order the banana cream pie.

Pies n Thighs
166 S. 4th St. at Driggs St.
Mon-Fri breakfast: 8-11, lunch: 11-4, dinner: 5-12
Sat-Sun brunch: 10-4, dinner: 5-12

When I showed up at Barcade on Sunday it occurred to me I hadn’t visited in about six years. A whole new generation was there, sipping microbrews and banging away on vintage arcade games. Think about it: today’s 22-year-old was born in 1988. Do these kids remember pumping quarters into Sega Out Run at the pizza parlor and tearing ass through pixelated palm trees while a pie blisters in the oven? Did they ever have to fetch their brother out of the mall arcade, a flashing cavern shot with victorious bleeps, electronic rifle fire and Bon Jovi, and steeped in the miasmatic body odor of teenage boys? Not likely. They probably cut their teeth on a Game Boy, and grew up crouched over Nintendo 64 or Playstation, safe at home and far away from the pressure of being on their last quarter while some random dude peers over their shoulder, silently wishing for their doom.

Those old arcade games seem like they’re coded in my DNA. I don’t consciously remember the exact timing of Mario’s first barrel jump in Donkey Kong or watching the heart erupt between Ms. and Mr. Pacman before level one but these things evoke the eery, inconsequential familiarity of deja vu. It’s a strange thrill one can have thirty times over at Barcade, with Frogger, Punch Out, Galaga, Contra, 1943, Ghosts n’ Goblins, Centipede, Tapper, and Rampage, among others. But for me, one game towers above the rest.

Tetris is probably the only video game I don’t suck at. There’s something utterly hypnotizing and timeless about manipulating those falling pieces into tidy lines. The game starts off deceptively dull as the pieces hop downward, teasing you into hurrying them along and misplacing them. Then it eases into a trance-state as pieces start falling faster and faster, finally driving you to hopeless desperation as the stack reaches the top of the screen. Other games are dated–adorably so, but they quickly become boring to my media be-numbed eyes. However, I could fill Tetris up with quarters all night, if the beer didn’t catch up with me first.

Speaking of beer, Barcade has an impressively long list of domestic microbrews on tap, including Victory Pilsner, Sixpoint Sweet Action, and Captain Lawrence Liquid Gold. There’s usually a cask ale, and expect $1 off during happy hour from 5-8 (2-8 on weekends). My Victory Pilsner came to only $4 during happy hour. One of the best things about Barcade are the little ledges you can rest your beer on while you’re playing, so you can grab a quick sip between levels. Off times are usually the best bet if you expect to grab a seat, get served quickly, play some games, and generally enjoy yourself. Later on all of Brooklyn, in fashionable dishabille, crowds inside. Perhaps things clear out around closing time, although you’d have to hold out til 4am to see it.

Barcade
388 Union Avenue between Powers St. and Ainslie St., Brooklyn
Mon-Fri 5pm-4am, Sat-Sun 2pm-4am

I’ll let you in on a secret: Frankie’s Spuntino, a cozy spot for reliably delicious Italian fare, serves a pretty damn good brunch. Just a few doors down from where weekend hordes queue up outside Clinton Street Bakery, I had some of the finest french toast in town–without waiting for a table. When I heard Frankie’s was opening Cafe Pedlar next door, I dutifully marched down to Clinton Street to sit in a sunbeam and sample some pastries. Keeping up Snackish is a dirty job sometimes but someone has to do it.

Cafe Pedlar serves Stumptown coffee, a name I hear thrown around so much I’m starting to wonder if they’re trying to annex a little bit of Starbuck’s turf. No matter, as the barista coaxed a fine cappuccino ($3.75) from the La Marzocco espresso machine. The pastries were even better. I sampled a moist and spongey olive oil cake with lemon zest ($3.50) and the pièce de résistance, a slice of crunchy french toast ($4.00). This was french toast imagined as pastry, a piece of eggy bread encased in a crisp maple syrup shell, served room temperature and eatable on the go, if you don’t mind sticky fingers.

The room will feel familiar to anyone living on the Lower East Side–a narrow, ground-floor dwelling with brick walls and few windows. Spartan’s the word when your main decoration is a shelf of wine bottles. But the open tables and mellow Bob Dylan tunes on the stereo invited lingering, whereas many of my favorite coffee shops (sorry Think, Abraço, and Ninth Street Espresso) seem designed to hustle me back onto the street. Next time I’m bringing a book and trying one of their delicately-twisted soft pretzels.

Cafe Pedlar and Frankies Spuntino also have Cobble Hill locations.

Cafe Pedlar
17 Clinton St. between Houston and Stanton. 7am-5pm Daily

Vinegar Hill is only a mile from Manhattan, but it feels about a hundred years away from anywhere. It’s not just the early-19th century buildings along cobblestoned Hudson Avenue or the Federal-style Commandant’s mansion, perched on a hill above the Navy Yard, that transport you to another time. It’s the lack of cars and people, the and the blank, paint-chipped storefronts, that evoke a place that’s been sealed off; by housing projects and the BQE on one end, and by a vast humming Con Ed plant and pungent sewage treatment plant fumes on the other.

(corner of Hudson Ave. and Evans Street with Con Ed towers)

(doorway on Hudson Ave.)

(Looking East into the Navy Yard from Hudson Ave.)

Freeman’s chef Jean Adamson, willing to bet a few people will venture east of Dumbo, installed Vinegar Hill House in a former butcher’s shop about a year ago. I have to wonder what the locals must think of it. They might be dreading an onslaught of a certain breed of bearded, plaid-shirted hipster, harbingers of gentrification to come. But the place exists so quietly (at least on a Sunday evening) that it seems to fit its surroundings. No sign marks its entrance and most of the renovations have been kept indoors. The wide plank floors and thrift-shop decor evoke early, rustic Americana; the seasonal menu follows suit.

According to their website the menu changes each week, so quite possibly the dishes I tried will soon be out of rotation. I ordered the corn ravioli with jalapeno, bacon, and sage ($13). I never met a ravioli I didn’t like, but I appreciated the crunch of sweet corn in a creamy sauce, with salty bits of bacon. My snacking associate had the boneless braised short ribs with heirloom tomatoes and croutons ($21). The ribs were deliciously flavored and tender, while a bit of blue cheese added lots of tangy flavor to the sauce. A roasted corn salad with cabbage, lime and parmesean ($8) would’ve fared better with a bit less cheese. My cocktail of tequila and peychaud ($10), while potent, did not equal more than the sum of its parts and was my least favorite part of the meal. I had to ask the waiter to bring a basket of bread–shouldn’t this be de rigueur?–and proceeded to sop up every bit of delicious sauce from our entrees with it.

Other than this oversight, the service was friendly, and while I didn’t think the prices were a bargain, the food was hearty, inventive, and probably a few dollars cheaper than comparable fare in Manhattan. Mostly, I’d stop here for the pleasure of finding a mellow nook in a forgotten corner of the city. Walking home over the Brooklyn Bridge can’t hurt either, especially if you indulge in the chocolate Guinness cake.

More about Vinegar Hill on Forgotten-NY

Vinegar Hill House
72 Hudson Ave. between Front St. and Water St. Brooklyn
Mon.-Thurs. 6pm-11pm, Fri-Sat. 6pm-11:30pm. Brunch Sat.-Sun. 11-4.
(718) 522-1018

For a pizzaholic, the trip out to Di Fara in Midwood on the Q feels almost like a pilgrimage. Located deep in Brooklyn, just after the subway creeps above ground into a strangely suburban landscape, this unassuming corner pizza parlor churns out some of the most celebrated pizza in the city. Pizza zen-master Dom DeMarco, who’s over 70 and has operated Di Fara for 40 years, makes each one himself (all day, seven days a week), from shaping the dough and spreading the sauce, to snipping fresh basil and swirling olive oil over the finished pie. Considering all the hype, I didn’t doubt it would be good; but would it meet my ridiculously high expectations?

It exceeded them. This is one of the rare slices where there’s just the right amount of everything, and it all tastes incredibly fresh–crisp, chewy crust, bright, tangy sauce, and slightly salty cheese melted over it all. Di Fara uses a mixture of fresh mozzarella or mozzerella di bufala with processed mozzarella, and a generous sprinkling of grana padana parmesean, that layers over every inch of sauce and is never too much. I ate two slices transfixed on the quiet sidewalk and then I wanted more.

But the wait is daunting. The line at Di Fara defies logic and patience; your order is written down and promptly forgotten, you ask for four slices and you get three. Regulars sidle in front of you, shouting “another pie!” and meanwhile you watch Dom, unhurriedly working away on another blob of dough, and wonder desparately, “is that mine?” You do this over and over again for maybe half and hour. The slices are expensive ($4) and if you’re looking to eat in, the interior is less from spotless.

Maybe I just really love pizza, but that’s all background noise to one of the best slices you can have. Granted, January may not be the ideal time to visit but one day soon the thermometer is bound to crack 50 degrees. Go early–wear a scarf, bring a book, and wander up the pretty rows of Victorian houses off Avenue J with a hot slice folded in your hands.

This just in from Slice: Di Fara is closed because Dom DeMarco broke his kneecap in a car accident and needs surgery. Word is he’ll recuperate at work, and reopen on or before February 1st. Here’s wishing Dom a speedy recovery.

DiFara on Slice
Dom DeMarco interview in the New York Times

Di Fara 1424 Ave. J at E. 15th St. Brooklyn
Daily 11am-10pm