'Cue

I stopped by Fette Sau in Billyburg last night, but the long line and lack of seating pointed me elsewhere. But when you're in the mood for 'cue, you're in the mood for 'cue, so to South Williamsburg we ventured, miraculously snagging a vacant table at Fatty 'Cue in under ten minutes.

The spot, in aesthetic and execution, isn't so different from Zak Pelaccio's Fatty Crabs, which is to say that the food is spicy, sweet, salty, textured and, above all else, full of fat. The best exemplar of "fat is flavor" comes across in the Dragon Pullman Toast with Master Fat. What is it? Slices of that well-known and pillow-soft bread with grill marks and a salt crust, served with a side of fat drippings from the barbecue. It's like eating the deckle of a rib-eye on toast, if that deckle had been rendered into a dippable liquid. Not half bad, I say.

We ate lamb ribs, off the bone and crisp, with a mackerel aioli, which sounds gross but isn't. Two mammoth pork ribs came with a palm sugar glaze that's stickier, sweeter, and more appealing than the best Texas red sauce. Pork bone broth is basically a rich consomme with sliced crunchy celery. In the context of all this meat, it almost reads like health food. So, too, do the habit-forming black eyed peas, served with the traditional addition of burnt ends and the not-so-traditional slickening of yellow curry. Grilled bacon, leaning towards the fatty, comes with a curry mustard and toast points, a modern take on charcuterie that doesn't feel too haute or out of place.

I would have ordered the crab for a shareable entree, but one of our party members is allergic, so we settled on brisket instead, which didn't disappoint. Fatty 'Cue serves the lean, pink slices alongside the dense, fatty ones. The brisket comes with mayonnaise, chili sauce, steamed buns (Peking duck style), cilantro, pickled red onions, and a bone broth for dipping. It's a rendering of make-your-own pork buns, or a French dip. And it's really, really good. Cutting all that fat with sugar and acid (found everywhere in accompanying sauces and in the vinegar and fish sauce container left on the table for each party's personal use) works so well, one wonders why Malaysian barbecue isn't already a "thing" in the city.

Then again, these treats are probably best enjoyed in moderation.

*

Fatty 'Cue

91 South 6th Street

Brooklyn, NY 11211

718.599.3090

Detox And Retox

I was "keeping it clean" this past week, in preparation for yesterday's ING New York Marathon. (Yes, I finished; no, I did not qualify for Boston.) That meant a bunch of whole grains, vegetables, and lean meats leading into the race. On Tuesday, a friend and I opted for nice, clean Asian cuisine, and, for lack of better ideas, stumbled upon Indonesian at Minangasli in Jackson Heights.

I've never had Indonesian food before, so I'm not sure what I would compare it to. An egg pancake was more like the delicious skin of an egg roll, deep-fried and served with a viscous soy sauce that was almost good enough to eat straight. Our satay combination platter included beef, lamb, and chicken (though the meats were virtually interchangeable) and came with the traditional accoutrement: peanut sauce, cubed cucumbers, red onion. It was tasty enough. But the true meaning of Indonesian food was best expressed to us upon the arrival of our noodles.

They were medium-width noodles like the ones you might find in Pad Thai, covered with browned mushrooms, bean sprouts, and ground meat. On top, three delicate fried wontons greeted us. They were stuffed with an equally delicate meat. On the side arrived a bowl of fragrant broth with tiny, perfect meatballs. We divided the broth, squeezed in some of whatever hot sauce happened to be on that particular table, and dumped our noodles in. The result was perfumy, light, and all in all worth the trip.

That was my last real meal of note until last night, when, in celebration of my own feat (and feet), I lined up for a rib-eye at Prime Meats in Carroll Gardens. I've written about Prime Meats in the past, but I have been waiting for the select opportunity to sample their 36-day dry-aged prime rib-eye (bone-in, of course), priced $1.80/ounce. If you know anything about steakhouses in New York, you know that this per ounce price is criminally low. I hoped it would be worth it.

We began with a crispy salad of celery and celery greens, a plate of addictive (and addictively fatty) lamb ribs, and a soft pretzel with butter and mustard. The salad was dressed with sunflower oil, showcasing the celery-ness of it. The lamb ribs were smoky, charred, and perfect, accompanied by beautiful roasted slices of local squash.

And then the steak. Nearly fifty ounces of it. By the time it arrived, by body had started to revolt. I wasn't hungry, but I soldiered on, making not even a small dent in our chop. The dickle, pure fat, melted. I skipped the chimichurri sauce--an applaudable version--in favor of the steak on its own, showcased only by Maldon salt. The char was perfect, the meat tender (it almost did not require a knife). I ate two pieces and packed the rest up, a moment of clarity that will bring much joy during tonight's Yankee game. Our big bowl of perfect French fries remained untouched and I offered it to the kitchen gods. It was my mistake for over-ordering. But I brought the tender mushroom spaetzle home; it, too, was not worth parting with.

*

Minangasli

8610 Whitney Avenue

Elmhurst, NY 11373

718.429.8207

*

Prime Meats

465 Court Street

Brooklyn, NY 11231

718.254.0327

It's A New Day

If you're wondering why I'm posting at this ridiculous hour, it's because I can't sleep.  Let me rephrase that.   I was asleep.  And then I woke up.  And it was hot, so I put my air conditioner on, even though it's February.  And then I was thirsty.  And then I was just... awake.  

Why not do all of the things I had scheduled for my supposed "morning," I thought.

So here I am. 

Yesterday, I began work at a new restaurant.  I've decided that it would be inappropriate for me to list the details of where I work on this blog for a variety of political reasons, but I don't think it's inappropriate for me to discuss the food.  As a Beverage Director, one of the perks of the job is the carte blanche when it comes to eating through the restaurant's menu.  One has to know the food to know what wines will best complement it.  And so I am required to eat.  

I'll be tasting through the menu over the course of the coming weeks, still keeping my self-created dietary restrictions in mind.  That's no easy feat, I'll admit, but I'm doing my best.  Family meal consisted of English muffin pizzas.  I did have one, but I'm pretty sure that one white-flour English muffin won't seal my fate.  

But for my actual dinner, eaten at the end of service, I had lamb ribs, served over a pickled tomato yogurt.  Lamb ribs are notoriously fatty, a turnoff to some (not me).  They're also pretty tiny, which makes eating them feel slightly less gluttonous than eating other kinds of ribs.  Or maybe I'm just trying to justify the crime. 

Next up, a poulard, roasted and served with carrots, celeriac, bread, and Honeycrisp apple.  Poulard is a young chicken (less than a year old) that has been fattened.  The result is a superbly moist bird with rich and juicy skin and tremendous chicken-y flavor.  It came cut into six smaller pieces, over a makeshift stuffing of the combined above ingredients.  There was a sweet and savory quality to the dish that I couldn't help but fall in love with. 

Both the lamb and poulard hail from Four Story Hill Farm in Pennsylvania, where proprietors Steve and Sylvia Pryzant raise milk-fed chickens, lamb, and apple-fed baby pigs.  If you haven't heard of Four Story yet, you will.  They are traditional, true to the land, and responsible for producing some of the finest meats in the northeast.  Their wares are expensive and well worth the price.  

All this I enjoyed with a glass of Brouilly, Cru Beaujolais from the southern tip of Burgundy.  Sigh.