“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

It’s the wee hours on a Saturday, and in just a little while farmers will be driving in from upstate and tents and tables will be set up and piled with fruit, vegetables, flowers, herbs, breads, meats, jams and cheese. Everyone, from professional chefs to budding cooks, shops at the Greenmarket year-round, but if you ask me, August is the best time to go.

Why? Well I’m all for supporting local farms and eating fresh, organic produce, but to be honest, I enjoy the little dose of sensory overload I get here. The variety of produce at this time of year is stunning: exquisitely sweet yellow peaches (watch for bees), a couple dozen strains of heirloom tomatoes (check NYmag for suggestions), sweet corn, watermelon, sunflowers, bunches of fragrant basil, plump blackberries, as well as perennial staples (garlic, shallots, kale).

The prices aren’t always cheap, but the quality is usually great–one of the aforementioned heirloom tomatoes will make that vine-ripened Jersey-grown cluster from Whole Foods taste like a shadow of a tomato.

While looking for one thing, I usually spot it in a form that I’ve never tried before. While looking for salad greens, I picked up some purslane; while shopping for mushrooms, I decided to try oyster mushrooms. I once asked a man selling jam what the difference was between the raspberry and black raspberry jam and he was flummoxed. “That’s like asking the difference between steak and lobster,” he said. I went with the lobster.

The reason for all this Greenmarket love is that I’ve been cooking at home for the first time in forever. Yes, I’m a rarefied beast who largely subsists on takeout, leftovers, supermarket buffets, and beer. That is, until lately. Stay tuned for more on this story.

Greenmarket
Union Square West, between 14th St. and 17th St.
Mon, Wed, Fri, Sat 8am-6pm
A guide to what’s in season

I admit it, this probably the best rice pudding I’ve ever had; and some of the best pudding I’ve had, period. If I’m ever packed off to a retirement home where I’m forced to make do with watery instant rice pudding, you can bet I’ll be mail ordering this stuff by the tub. The rice is cooked to ideal tenderness, and compliments a deliriously creamy texture that can only be faulted for being too rich. Half a serving of their smallest size, the “solo” ($6) is usually enough to send “full now please stop” signals ricocheting from my brain. Flavors have been composed to mimic their real-world counterparts with satisfying accuracy: coast to coast cheesecake, fluent in french toast, and take me to tiramisu being among my favorites. I’d advise avoiding citrus-based flavors like surrender to mango, which is completely overpowering. My all-time favorites are the relatively-plain category 5 caramel and understanding vanilla, with a topping like crumbled graham crackers or caramel sauce ($1 each). Luckily, free samples of puddings are available and limited only by how much you wish to irritate the counter person helping you.

The only thing that really nags me is the packaging. Once you get past the initial novelty, it seems a bit of a waste. Sure the tupperware-grade bowls are reusable, but I don’t need more plastic dishes. Throw my pudding in a paper cup so I at least feel like I’m not poisoning planet earth, why don’t you? Help a skinny bitch out here.

Rice to Riches
37 Spring St. between Mulberry St. and Mott St.
Sun-Thu 11am-11pm, Fri-Sat 11am-1am.

Coconut water, which has been quietly infiltrating delis and supermarkets over the past few years, has been touted as an excellent re-hydrator for desiccated barflies. An Observer article noted that one brand, Vita Coco, contains 15 times more electrolytes than sports drinks and as much potassium as two bananas. According to the NY Post, Madonna is an investor in Vita Coco, and while I can’t really picture her polluting herself with booze, she doesn’t look any worse for her coconut water habit. An article in Time magazine reported that coconut water has used intravenously in medical emergencies and that it contains the same five electrolytes as human blood. The writer of the article even states that after drinking one for a hangover, “I felt noticeably better in an hour.” Anecdotal evidence is good enough for me! I grabbed a box of Vita Coco the morning of my next hangover, while on the way to the Apple Store (if there’s one thing crappier than waking up with a hangover, it’s waking up with a hangover and realizing your computer has died, taking with it an embarrassing amount of un-backed-up data).

First of all, you probably want a straw to drink your Vita Coco with. I suppose you could chug it directly from the box, but in my state I couldn’t do that gracefully, and I have too many memories of back-firing Capri Sun pouches to entrust myself with this task. Taste-wise I was expecting something like a virgin pina colada, but I was thinking of coconut milk, which is harvested from mature coconuts. Coconut water, which comes from green coconuts, is undoubtedly watery. Vita Coco had a faintly sweet taste, not exactly a flavor but more of a stale-ish quality. It wasn’t bad, especially as I got used to it, but it would have been more pleasant consumed ice-cold, or enhanced with other flavors (Vita Coco also makes pomegranate and pineapple blends).

So did it make my hangover better? I’m sorry to say it did not, but I didn’t feel any worse. Maybe my hangover was just too powerful, or maybe careening around in the back of a taxi with a dead laptop was counteracting hydration by making me queasy. There is probably some psychological benefit to be had from purchasing something that’s nutritious, as opposed to helplessly enduring your day-after punishment. For now, I think I’m stuck with avoidance as the only solution.

Vita Coco is available in delis, usually next to the sports drinks

I’d been pondering how and how much to stock up for the trip, so when I wandered past the barely two-week-old Grand Cru, I initially thought I was experiencing a case of very life-like wish fulfillment. Single-and fancy-looking bottles lined the walls, including one from Pretty Things, Saint Botolph’s Town Brown Ale ($7.50; read my review of their Fluffy White Rabbits Hoppy Triple). Saint Botolph’s was a dangerously drinkable, malty, roasty dark beer. It suffered from being too cold since I stuffed it in a freezer in effort to quickly chill it and promptly forgot while cooking memorial day tacos. Don’t freeze it unless you’re craving a brown ale popsicle. I also picked up an intriguing-looking porter from a Norwegian brewery called Nogne O ($8.75, 1PT .9 oz). This was a superb example of a pitch-black, chocolately porter with a foamy-milkshake head. Really a winter style, but one I could drink it all year long. Stone, Smuttynose, Delerium Tremens, and Anchor Steam were some of the other bottles I recognized in the shop, and if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get on the road to PA, I would have gladly lingered over beer and cheese in their cafe area, or taken home a growler. If you’re in the area, and you like beer, your course of action should be clear.

Grand Cru Beer and Cheese Market
Sun-Thurs 10am-7 pmalthough they might be open later if people are hanging out in the the cafe
Fri-Sat 10am-9 or 9:30

Schnitzel, a product of Austrian cuisine, is a boneless piece of meat that’s pounded flat, breaded, deep-fried, and served with a wedge of lemon. The most famous variation, wiener schnitzel, is made out of veal, but there are other varieties. The Schnitzel & Things truck serves chicken, pork and cod versions, as well as a toothsome-looking schnitzel burger, and bratwurst. Schnitzel can be ordered in a sandwich ($8) or as a platter with two sides ($10). Sides include potato salad, cucumber salad, french fries, chickpea salad, roasted beets, and mesclun salad (sample of 4 sides is $8).

I went with the chicken schnitzel platter. The cutlet was generously-sized, perfectly crisp, yet not terribly greasy–quite possibly ideal bookends for a schnitzel double down. A squirt of lemon, and generous dipping in pesto mayo sauce enhanced the otherwise plain flavor (ginger, olive, sriracha, and tartar sauces are also available, and absolutely essential). As for the sides, I enjoyed the roasted beets–the sweetness of the beets was cut by a crumbly layer of salty, rich feta cheese. The potato salad was… well, you’ll probably never see me get worked up about potato salad, but it was sufficiently tasty when dipped in mayo. In fact, my sole criticism with my lunch was I could’ve used more sauce.

I can only think of one other critique. I’ve always assumed food truck-eating should be, above all else, wallet-friendly. Platter or no, $10 is about the maximum that I can pay for truck fare without feeling chumpish. Even though it’s probably worth it, it’s better for my waistline if I don’t eat schnitzel too often anyway. Also, judging by the crowd of people during my early lunch stop, there will be a sizeable line following this truck around. But the queue moved swiftly, and they were handing out free, deep-fried balls of prosciutto and ricotta for folks to munch on, which certainly helps pass the time.

Schnitzel & Things truck
Check Twitter for locations

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

OK OK. Let’s look past the name for a minute. When I see a dude hustling toward the checkout with three big bottles of a beer I’ve never heard of, I know something is afoot. A closer inspection of the label, a fairy-tale depiction of dandyfied pantsless rabbits waving from the back of a covered wagon, intrigued me enough to drop $8 on a 1 pt 6 oz bottle. But in all honesty, I did not expect much, except maybe bemused stares from my cohorts as I nursed the pussiest-looking beer known to man.

But wait, there’s magic in these bunnies. Fluffy White Rabbits poured out a foggy golden color with an–ahem–fluffy head and just a hint of citrus. Gone was the rough alcohol punch or in-you-face fruitiness I normally associate with Belgians. The underpinnings were there, but mellowed by the right amount of hops, and enhanced by just a bit of prickly carbonation. I’m not sure how else to describe this except as “smooth” and “springtimey,” quite a feat for an 8.5% ABV ale. In fact, I could probably chuck all those over-hopped IPAs and watery pilsners and drink this all summer.

Pretty Things Beer & Ale Project is a small brewery in Massachusetts. With brews named “Confounded Mr. Sisyphus” and “Babayaga” (a witch from Eastern European folklore), they’re aiming for the imagination as well as the palate, and if Fluffy White Rabbits is any indication of the quality of their beers, I’ll be looking for more from them. On a sad note: apparently there’s no plans to extend Fluffy White Rabbits‘ run beyond springtime. All the more reason to hop into Whole Foods and stock up while you can!

Available at Whole Foods Beer Room
95 East Houston Street at Chrystie Street

You know the expression, “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans?” I was reminded of it after eating at Kampuchea. While I don’t know much about Cambodian cuisine, I know that Cambodia is close to Vietnam, so I was planning for some bahn mi-style goodness from Kampuchea’s num pang sandwiches. But as it turned out, the highlights of the meal were not what I was expecting.

On my first visit, I sat in the dining room, a streamlined space with a view of a spotless open kitchen. On my second trip, I ate at the adjoining Norry bar, dark, cozy room with rustic tables and cushioned benches. The Norry’s ipod was cranking MC5 and De La Soul, some of the rare hip-hop I can actually stand. Overall I slightly preferred the informal atmosphere of the bar to the dining room, although the menu was the same.

grilled corn

First of all, I was pleasantly surprised by the beer list. The Norry and dining room have several mircobrews on tap like Mothers Milk from Keegan Ales, Sixpoint Sweet Action, and Blue Point Toasted Lager. There was even a Belgian on tap (St. Bernardus). On both visits I opted for a cocktail to start, and the Norry ($14), a mix of lemongrass-infused maker’s mark, fig puree, honey syrup and lemon juice, was a winner. Most of the time I find restaurant cocktails to be disappointing, but this one was well-mixed and quite soothing for a cold–if a tad overpriced. I expected little from the grilled corn on the cob ($6), but I ended up savoring the roasted kernels covered with spicy chili mayo and coconut flakes. If you’ve had the corn at Cafe Habana you know what to expect, but this is twice as good. Fried chicken with chili-spiced salt ($11) was the perfect accomplice to a pint of Sweet Action, although the chicken was more lightly-breaded than deep-fried crunchy. The crispy pork belly with honey/cider glaze, scallions, and toasted lemongrass had a satisfying crispy layer–like a crust of bacon atop succulent pork and rivulets of fat.

fried chicken

Of the num pang I tried the catfish sandwich was the best ($11). The fish was topped with cracked pepper, honey, soy sauce, carrots, cucumbers, and cilantro, and served on a crunchy baguette. It was a well-balanced sandwich, if overpriced compared to what you’d pay for bahn mi. The cured bacon, pickled chili and red onion sandwich ($10) was poorly executed; the bacon was so tough it was impossible to get a good, balanced bite. The oxtail, tamarind, and honey sandwich ($13) wasn’t bad, but wasn’t especially enjoyable. I felt as though I should be eating a pulled pork sandwich, but the pork had been replaced with something stringier and suspiciously gamier. Granted, I’m not no oxtail connoisseur, and this may be a fine example of the ingredient. The sandwiches were served with sweet potato waffle chips, which were unforgiveably uncrisp.

catfish sandwich

Dessert was notable in that it was both a near-miss and a total disaster. The fried brichoe with apple butter, pecan, and butterscotch would have been good if the apple filling inside the doughy balls was warm instead of barely unfrozen. On the other hand, the honey granite with winter citrus and thai chili was, in a word, weird. Picture a bowl of shaved ice, topped with something akin to fruit and hot sauce. I’d recommend rolling into the Norry late at night for relaxed beers and appetizers, or maybe starting off the evening with a Norry cocktail and catfish sandwich. If you want a tasty sandwiches quite similar to this but cheaper, and atmosphere is no object, it’s a no-brainer: veer south into Chinatown for bahn mi.

Kampuchea and The Norry Bar
78 Rivington St. at Allen St.
Dinner: Mon 5:30pm-11pm, Tues-Thurs 5:30-1am, Fri-Sat 5:30pm-2am, Sun 5pm-11pm
Brunch: Sat-Sun 11am-3:30pm

Lately it seems like everyone’s moving to the Bowery. Now Hecho en Dumbo, whose owners shuttered their Brooklyn location last fall, is open for business on the newly-chic stretch above Houston Street. And by “newly,” I’m talking about what’s happened just over the last five years: John Varvatos moved into CBGBs, luxury hotels soared over nearby tenements, condos trampled the Liz Christy community garden, and the new Whole Foods and Think Coffee usurped the men’s shelter as neighborhood hubs. Let’s not even speak of that weird Cooper Union building. Hecho, with its artfully-repurposed Hershey’s Ice Cream sign, seems almost undercover compared to its neighbors.

The possibility of dining on good tacos in my neighborhood (a long-cherished, oft-dashed hope) compelled me to drag a friend into the thick of Hecho en Dumbo’s Saturday night rush. We put our names down for a table, and nursed margaritas ($10 each) near the ear-splittingly noisy bar. The crowd around us was young and frighteningly pretty, accessorized with dagger heels and Buddy Holly eyewear. After forty-five minutes I began stalking the host, who peered at his scribbled list and said “soon?”

After an hour we were seated in the dining room, a modern take on lower-east-side quaint: exposed brick, naked lightbulbs and ceiling pipe running the length of a long, windowless room. A few seats around an open kitchen in the back offered a full view of the preparations: a nice touch. Our first bite was a child-sized dollop of guacamole flanked by corn chips ($7) which came with three mild-to-moderately spicy salsas. Next I ordered queso fundido de rajas–roasted chile poblano pepper with sauteed onion smothered with oaxaca cheese and queso asadero ($10). This dish was heartily-sized, and meant to be scooped into fresh tortillas. Overall I enjoyed it, although I defy you to screw up anything that’s slathered in halfway decent cheese. My next dish was tacos de cochinita de pibil–three tiny tortillas topped with shredded berkshire pork and picked red onion ($8). They seemed rather like mouthfuls of soggy pork as opposed to proper tacos, although I suppose the meat was well-seasoned. My friend’s Burritas de Res ($8)–three small tortillas rolled around steak and caramelized onion–suffered from similar blandness. They lacked the interplay of spices and cooling sour cream that I usually enjoy with my burritos.

After just one visit I can’t say it’s not worth checking out the rest of the menu, but go on a weeknight. Waiting an hour for ok food at a trendy restaurant is for folks more patient than I. And if the cochinitas were any indication, my quest to find a delicious taco in my neighborhood will drag on. Holes-in-the-wall like Snack Dragon and Zaragoza will do only in a pinch. Pricey options like La Palapa and Mercadito are tastier, but don’t seem worth the tab. Hecho en Dumbo’s prices are actually not bad, provided you have the appetite of a small child. I recommend the queso fundido to help fill up.

Hecho en Dumbo
354 Bowery between Great Jones and E 4th St.
Brunch: every day 10:30am-4pm
Dinner: Monday-Thu 5:30pm-12am, Fri-Sat 5:30pm-2am, Sun 5:30pm-11pm