Thanks to Heidi Klum on Project Runway, we all know how to say good-bye in German (Auf Wiedersehen). If you ever find yourself craving barbecue in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg, it’s important to know another German phrase — Fette Sau (354 Metroplitan Ave.), which translates to “fat pig.”

In a space that was previously an auto-body repair shop, owners Kim and Joe Carroll have opened this carnivore’s dream, serving up slabs and cuts of meat, sold by weight, on a huge aluminum tray. All meat is smoked in-house with their own dry rub.

On this day they were offering:
Black Angus Brisket — $16/pound
Pulled Duroc Pork Shoulder — $16/pound
Berkshire Pork Belly — $16/pound
St. Louis Style Duroc Pork Spare Ribs — $15/pound
Black Angus Boneless Beef Ribs — $18/pound
Spicy Berkshire Pork Sausage — $2.50/link

We opted for the Black Angus Beef Brisket, Pulled Pork Shoulder and a Spicy Berkshire Pork Sausage. To prove we were still omnivores, we added a side of Dante’s German Potato Salad ($3 small, $5 large) which featured grainy mustard and reminded me of a non-dairy version I’d had at Toronto’s Stockyards.

It was a heavy meal for sure, but it’s kept light and casual by the environment. Picnic benches stand in for tables and chairs and the clientele is jovial thanks to their extensive whisky list (the best American selection in NYC). We have only one serious warning about Fette Sau. Watch out for the gout!

Fette Sau / 354 Metropolitan Ave., Brooklyn
718 963 3404 / Opens 5pm daily, kitchen closes at 11pm, bar and snacks until 2am

Erica and her watermelon water at Taco Bite in Brooklyn

agua de sandía

we got raspados (snow cones) made from ice shaved off a giant block later with Joyce

raspberries and mochi

Brunch at Taco Bite in Brooklyn on Saturday was nutritious.  Erica and I both got the Super Combo Poblano for $7.95.  It came with black beans instead of the refried beans listed in the menu.

We went to Fette Sau in Brooklyn with Courtney, her brother, Erica, and John on Friday and they had pork tails and pork cheeks.  This is the platter that I shared with Erica.

Fette Sau

I’m so happy to be in New York with such lovely people.  It really feels like a homecoming.  I love you guys.

Erica and her watermelon water at Taco Bite in Brooklyn

agua de sandía

we got raspados (snow cones) made from ice shaved off a giant block later with Joyce

raspberries and mochi

Brunch at Taco Bite in Brooklyn on Saturday was nutritious.  Erica and I both got the Super Combo Poblano for $7.95.  It came with black beans instead of the refried beans listed in the menu.

We went to Fette Sau in Brooklyn with Courtney, her brother, Erica, and John on Friday and they had pork tails and pork cheeks.  This is the platter that I shared with Erica.

Fette Sau

I’m so happy to be in New York with such lovely people.  It really feels like a homecoming.  I love you guys.

Charlie just dry humped a pig, then carved it up and ate it.  He’s at Fette Sau and he’s sharing a massive meat tray with his friends:  ribs, pork belly, pulled pork, snoshages, brisket and baked beans.  MEAT HEADACHE!!!

 What did the exasperated Jewish pig say to the Butcher?  “Oink vey”!

Country Music Marathon Course Map

In 2005, I ran in the NYC Marathon.  I trained with Fred’s Team, an organization that’s affiliated with Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.   The experience was amazing, but I considered it a check mark, off the “things you do before you die” list.  No need to go through that again.  But a few events have combined to motivate me for another run.

1)  Time- Moving to Ithaca, and removing two hours of commuting time from my daily schedule

2)  A good friend-  Brendan is attempting to run 50 marathons in 50 states, and his mission is coming to Nashville in April.  He’ll be traveling with his new baby, Karina (and our god-daughter!) and wife, Kazumi.  So it’s a marathon and a reunion all-in-one.

3)  Food- I spoke to someone from Nashville while eating BBQ at Fette Sau in Brooklyn.  His boasting of Nashville BBQ solidified my interest in visiting Nashville. For the record, those restaurants were:  Sweats Soul Food, Prince’s Hot Chicken Shack,  Whitts  BBQ, and Monell’s.  According to a friend of ours who filmed Hamburger America I also have to taste the burgers at Brown’s Diner and Rotier’s.  My favorite thing about the first marathon was filling the raging appetite that came with all the running.  What better place to celebrate after 26 miles than a town famous for its burgers, spicy chicken and BBQ.

4)  Country Music-  The only music I wouldn’t listen to growing up, is now a favorite.  I still haven’t acquired a taste for Big and Rich style country, but Merle Haggard, Loretta Lynn, George Jones and Johnny Paycheck have all become favorites.  Thanks to Cousin Tim for introducing me to classic country.  If you live in the Boston area, look up Tim Obetz on the steel guitar with one of his many bands, including Dave Aaronoff and the Protagonist.

5)  Team in Training-  Similar to the NYC marathon, I’ll be running the Country Music Marathon for a cause.  For this race, I’ll be running with Team in Training, part of the  Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.  An estimated 150,000 people will be diagnosed with Leukemia or Lymphoma this year and it’s the cancer that causes the greatest death to children (under the age of 20).    The Leukemia & Lymphoma society spends $61 Million per year on research, financial assistance for patients and education about the disease.  Please visit my personal fundraising page if you would like to make a donation.  Ethan’s Team in Training Fundraising Page

I will  post on this blog about my training from now until race day.  So check back for updates on what it feels like to run a 20 mile training run in an upstate NY winter.  Or to run a half marathon on a treadmill when it’s sub-zero outside.  Or come meet us in Nashville for some hot chicken, cold beer and Johnny Paycheck.

good for you Brooklyn. you’ve done me proud

click me

i agree with TONY…haven’t hit up Fette Sau yet but my girl Alex says it’s pretty off the hook…how can you go wrong with pounds of meat?

Hello from NY!

I’ve said it before and now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve moved to New York! I still can’t believe I’m here in NYC and am waiting to hop back on the plane any minute now…but it’s true: I’m a New Yorker, no longer an Angelina. While I have plans to live in the city once I secure a place, living in a friend’s guest room in Williamsburg (that’s Brooklyn for you NY neophytes) has had its advantages. Along with its up and coming COOL restaurant scene, Williamsburg is home to some of the nation’s most fashion forward (or backwards, depending on your year of birth) “hipsters.” You will never fully reach hipster status until you’ve lived in New York and been amongst (or slept with) all the tight pants wearing, checkered scarf wrapping, members only toting androgynous types of the city. It truly makes you question your identity: Should I dispose of all the fresh polo shirts I just purchased at The Gap? And then repurchase them at Goodwill? Or maybe I’ll just let the moths have at em for awhile. Either way, I’m a victim and will probably be seen with a condescending smirk in front of Bloomies any day now.

Other than hipsters, Williamsburg is boasting a restaurant scene comparable to those in the city. I visited one restaurant this past Saturday night for a friend’s birthday dinner. Fette Sau has all the elements to classify it as a hipster’s hangout: a virtual fireplace, butcher diagrams lining the walls, a we’re too casual for plates so eat off a parchment paper lined tray attitude, and of course, stellar bbq.

Owner Joe Carroll opened Fette Sau (meaning fat pig in German) in Fall of 2006 across the street from his other venue, the beer bar Spuyten Duyvil. Housed in a lot once owned by the neighboring auto-body repair shop, it gives off an rugged vibe with a serious attitude towards meat. There are no reservations so you must stand in line like everyone else. Ironically enough, with all the hype and praise the place has garnered, the place has become a version of the cattle pen its food once came from.

Carroll isn’t a man interested in sauce, so you won’t find the kind of bbq that leaves your face looking like the face in the nasty Carl’s Jr. chili burger ad (ew). He’s a man all about the rub. Choices of meat vary every day, but you can count on the pulled pork and brisket to be some of the top sellers. The brisket would have to be my favorite: marbled with fat, eating the brisket was definitely a melt in your mouth kind of experience.

They’re also known for their beans. Cooked with burnt ends and pork belly, it slow cooks for about 2 1/2 weeks, allowing for all the fat to be released. Prices can get steep as it’s priced by the pound. But the below tray that fed 3 hungry (and cold!) 20 somethings cost about $36.

If only, high school cafeterias thought of this sooner…

Also known for their gallon beers served in jugs and poured in jars.

Or mouth, whichever is easier.

Check out the sweet beer tap handles…

So while I realize, most of my readers are in Los Angeles, I hope these posts will either draw you to New York at one point in your life, or at least to visit me! Coming up, grocery shopping in New York. It’s an experience. Let. me. tell. you.

You can certainly satisfy your appetite in millions of restaurants in New York City so why paddle over from your Manhattan accommodation to Williamsburg (Brooklyn)?

BECAUSE…you need to visit Williamsburg once anyway and it is even more fun at night as this neighbourhood is full of cool bars, cafés, restaurants, speakeasies and clubs – which are not frequented too much by tourists from Idaho or Germany. If you don’t want to pay big dollars on Four Seasons or Jean Georges and fancy a cheap chain diner then there is a real alternative: Fette Sau (means fat pig).

The closest subway station is probably Metropolitan/Lorimer on the L line. Go on Metropilitan opposite direction of subway, pass under the highway and find a driveway equipped with picnic tables on the left hand side, close to Havemeyer Street. You’ve arrived! This joint is a former garage and still kept its industrial style. Not big, but cozy.

They offer earthy, greasy but solid pork, beef and lamb through a self-service butcher’s counter which is paid by weight. The staff puts your meat directly on a sheet of paper on your tray. You can choose from a few sides that are not overwhelming but you have at least something to chew on besides your meat (potato salad and such). You are probably terrified when you see black pieces of meat coming from the smoke apparatus which is the heart of this place. You’ll find a changing variety of ribs, leg of lamb, belly of pork, steak and pastrami. Accompanied by one of the local brewed beers and a shot of digestif, bourbon or whiskey from the über-equipped bar and you will be happy (not you, veggies and vegans!) There is a handful of different home-made and creative sauces for your meal as well. The meat is greasy, tender and aromatic. Their staff is nice and folks around you may be students, young families from the neighbourhood and some southerners who swear on this unpretentious cuisine.

Those who do not flinch from eating at Fetta Sau earned an interesting experience away from the Times Square pack and can call themselves “hip”. Find your way back to by continuing further in direction of the East River with a final visit to a chic watering-hole in Wiliamsburg before boarding the L-train back to “civilized“ Manhattan.

Fatty Sow, Part II.

You thought this post was going to be a continuation of my much celebrated opening weekend review of Fette Sau. Not true! Not true at all. What do girls really like to talk about? BOYS! So, ladies, have I got a story for you. Max and I had such a fight this afternoon!

Lucky for you, readers, we’re not geriatric, so it was on Gchat. (NYT Modern Love, here I come). To wit:

Max: I wonder what I’ll do for dinner.
me: I can’t wait to find out
Max: I’m thinking some pulled pork
me: oh seriously?
from where?
Max: both the alan richman AND calvin trillin books refer to carolina chopped pork
So I’ve been craving it.
Pies n Thighs
me: that’s one of my top meats, babe
on the list of meats I will eat
Max: This sandwich is the way to start.
me: sandwich?
I would just want it plain
or with okra or collard greens
or cornbread
that’s how I’d want it
Max: Stop fronting.
me: no joke, babe
I don’t think I’d like it in a sandwich as much
Max: Why not?
With cole slaw and a pickle and hot sauce?
Mmmm.
me: sandwiches need to have very tidy things on them
or else I have to take them apart
Max: These are not tidy.
me: to fully enjoy each component
Max: They fall apart in your mouth.
NO
NO
NO
me: yeah exactly
Max: You’re making me mad. Stop it.
me: really?
Max: Sort of, yes.
Not mad. Disappointed.

Disappointed?? Shit. In the grand spectrum of how people feel about me, I prefer them to remain consistently clustered around the marker labeled “impressed.” That’s pretty far away from disappointed. Another confession? I super like looking hot. At a party the other week, I had a conversation with a (hot) young lady about how she gave up her vegetarianism following a freak car accident several years ago. Her boyfriend at the time took advantage of her “sprain of the buttocks” to feed her a hamburger, and she hasn’t gone back.

I nodded and smiled while she told me that her recovery was quick, she feels good, WHATEVER, but then:

“And my parents?”
“Yeah?”
“They say I look much, much healthier. You know, parents are always worried, too skinny–” I decided it was time to get to the point.
“Do you think you look better?”
“Definitely.”

I believe her! She had shiny hair, a woolly gray cardigan, tight little pants–honestly, that’s all I remember. But my mom has been telling me that I look “wan” ever since I started smoking pot in high school. And moms are basically the arbiters of truth, especially when it comes to their offspring’s appearances.

File this under the “things that are not true” tab, will you?

There’s something I’ve wanted to talk about for awhile. It’s how many pickles you can eat in a night before you’ve eaten an odd number of pickles. Not odd as in eighty-seven, fifty-one, et cetera, but odd as in abnormal. Or perhaps even slightly gross.

I went out to a neat barbeque place the other night, but I’d had a late lunch and am a vegetarian, so instead of ordering nine links of glistening, flesh-pink sausage I decided I wanted pickles.

Fette Sau, by the way, reminded me of a fish joint that my family used to go to in our beach house town before my parents remembered that they weren’t obese white Philadelphians like the rest of the patrons, or something. Anyway, I loved the fish place. We could buy creamy macaroni and cheese and baked beans by the pound. By the pound is exactly how Fette Sau (fatty sow? that’s what a horrendous husband–I can’t even say it) sells their food. Naturally, I asked Max to get a pound of pickles. That was what it said on the menu! A pound.

Max didn’t even blink, because he is occasionally tolerant and also, I presume, because he was aware that we were patronizing an overwhelmingly meat heavy establishment. The woman behind the counter took our order, listening obediently as Max named all these meaty dishes that he and everyone else were going to eat, and it wasn’t until he got to my dinner that she interrupted.

“Pickles? Do you want a half pound?”

“Oh”–I’d heard her question, and I was silently urging Max to not turn around and relay her question to me, but he did–”hey, Emma, do you just want a half pound of pickles?”

What was I supposed to say?? No, babe, no I’m famished for salt and brine and things that used to be cucumbers so I want a whole pound? There were so many other people around, and none of them were my friend Lee, who can also polish off a jar of half-sours in an afternoon.

“Uh, yeah. Half a pound, sure.”

When the pickles arrived, I demanded that no one pay attention to how many there were then and how many there would be by the end of the meal, but later that night as I was gnawing on my chapped, brine-dehydrated bottom lip, I had to ask myself: how many pickles is an odd number of pickles?

But don’t worry, I wasn’t conflicted for long. One. That’s the answer! The oddest number of pickles would be only one.