Pie's the Limit
"Do you eat meat?" asks bushy-bearded Steve Tanner. He's holding a pan of freshly smoked, oven-roasted pork.
I nod.
He hands me a crispy-yet-tender chunk. I chew. Smoky sweetness oozes onto my tongue, the steaming pork warming my stomach like young love.
"Good, right?" he asks, groaning.
I moan my approval, a not uncommon response to eating at Pies 'n Thighs, a southern-fried nugget crammed in an improbable locale: beneath the Williamsburg Bridge, in a walk-in-closet kitchen wedged inside the dingy Rocky's bar. Thankfully, good things come in small packages, and Tanner and his partner, Sarah Buck (she bakes; he handles meat), have wrung magic from modest surroundings.
The month-old greasy spoon is announced by a hand-painted green-and-white sign, the sort spied on dusty country roads. It feels rustic and homey, and it makes perfect sense. Red stools, a black-and-white tile floor and a cookbook-packed bookcase mimic grandma's kitchen. Heck, one evening, three women commandeered the stools to shuck fava beans.
"Don't mind us," Buck said, popping beans from the pod. "Just tell me when you're ready to order."
The block-lettered signboard focuses on artery-clogging standards like fried catfish and collard greens, but I recommend whetting your appetite with the fried chicken ($8). Three palm-sized pieces are served, glistening, golden and fryer-fresh, alongside a flaky biscuit and a side. (Smart eaters will select the cornmeal-battered fried green tomatoes.) The chicken is crunchy, juicy and less greasy than a Hawaiian Tropics model. I'm often compelled to rip into the drumstick flesh with my canines, like a feral animal.
I also abandon my manners when eating the Carolina pulled pork sandwich ($8). It's topped with a construction-paper-thin pickle slice and homemade coleslaw, then squirted with hot sauce and vinegar. Creamy, sour, smoky and messy, it's a taste bud roller coaster. The fried catfish ($8) is equally plate-cleaning-and palate-maddeningly-good. Warm, buttery cornbread is paired with two cornmeal-encrusted filets, destined to be dipped in a revelation:
"Hands down, this is the best tartar sauce I've ever tasted," said my dining companion, a longtime waiter. "And I hate tartar sauce."
Gone is the goopy pabulum, replaced by a rarefied mix of mayo, pickles, lemon juice and onion. It's a dipping delight, also great with the nickel-size hush puppies. The whole meal is best washed down with sweet tea ($2) or fresh-squeezed lemonade ($2). Can't decide? Try the Arny Palmer, a 50-50 mix. Or buy a Rocky's beer. Bartenders will pour it into a plastic cup, which you can sip in Pies' "dining patio": a barbed-wire courtyard, sprinkled with tables topped by red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths. The industrial locale screams Williamsburg, but the titanic portions are a reminder that this remains a southern kitchen.
"He always gives you too much food," Buck lamented to me one night, as I labored over my last fried-chicken morsel. "No one saves space for pie."
Don't make this mistake. Split a chicken or catfish box with a dining companion, for Buck's desserts are sweet-tooth treats. The peanut butter pie ($3.50) is Reese's done right: peanut butter base crowned with peanuts and a thin chocolate layer. Also exemplary are the farm-fresh key lime and rhubarb pies, which, if you ask nicely, Buck will cap with homemade whipped cream.
For once, forget you're a normal New Yorker and make early-evening dinner plans. Pies 'n Thighs stops frying by 9 p.m., and one visit saw everything but pies vanished by 7:30 p.m. Another night, bye-bye fried green tomatoes and mac 'n cheese. There's also bad news for vegetarians: Even innocuous dishes, like the superior collard greens and baked beans, are pork-infused. Instead, stick to desserts and the weekend brunch. Donuts, buckwheat pancakes, biscuits and eggs will appease, if hangover-killing grease punches your ticket.
But these are the minor trifles of a man paid to be critical. Pies 'n Thighs is one of New York City's most heartwarming, belly-filling restaurants. You can gab with the owners and slag the '70s rock blaring from the kitchen radio. Or reach behind the counter and grab the jug o' honey. Pies is as unpretentious as your best friend's apartment, with prices fit for a pauper. My major complaint is that the food's too damned addictive. I rue the day I'm dragged away from Pies 'n Thighs, kicking and screaming, licking my fingers and begging for just one more taste.
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