Hurry up with my damn barbecue!

A friend commented on this picture I posted to Instagram: "What a sophisticated New Yorker." Thanks, man.

In a recent bout of first-world problems, I've been feeling some of the same harassing food envy that urged Kanye West to pen his latest eloquent rhyme. Except that in my case, my hunger pangs can't be blamed on a buttery, flaky pastry taking its sweet time to get on my plate. I blame the long lines at Fette Sau, a barbecue joint in Brooklyn, whose name actually means "fat pig" in German. Promising, right?

As a diner here you get to torture yourself by standing in line for 30-60 minutes, inching past tables covered in mason jars of beer and paper-lined aluminum trays, themselves piled high with pulled pork, brisket, ribs and cups of baked beans, smelling all of these delicious sweet, smoky, meaty smells, until you finally get to the counter. Then you order your meat by the half-pound or pound (or more, hey I'm not judging) as well as your sides, and they grace you with the softest rolls I've ever had. Even if you've now morphed into a ravenous ogre, you can't get carried away with the bread as it is carefully rationed according to the number of people eating. Then you get to walk around the entire restaurant scanning each and every one of the communal picnic tables for an acceptable spot to sit. So far you're having a blast, obviously.

Here's the good news: it's easy to either make yourself a little spot at a table or death stare someone out of reserving half a table for their friends who are standing in line getting food. I think I remember myself saying something along the lines of "food is in my hands, I want to eat it, so I suggest you move aside before my evil hangry twin gets here." Or nearly that. And then, you get to savor every bite as if you had never had to wait at all. You douse your brisket in their house made vinegary hot sauce, build mini pulled pork sandwiches with the rolls you're allotted and brag each time you get a nice piece of meat in your bite of baked beans. I can't recommend Fette Sau enough. Call me a masochist, but I've already been several times and can't wait for the next time I stand in a line for an hour with my mouth watering at alarming levels. At least the beer you get to drink in line provides sustenance and hydration.

On childhood memories while drinking beer

Roberta's backyard bar

Last Saturday I had the pleasure of galavanting around Brooklyn for the better part of the day with a friend visiting from Los Angeles. We had some wine and cocktails, then some beer and a special "frozen drank" of gin and citrus juice, before finally getting a table at Roberta's. (I cannot recommend this place enough by the way. Snark all you want at my trendy hipster predictability. That pizza is the stuff of dreams.) Judging from the 1h40 quoted wait time for a table, we knew it was going to be a while before any food hit our plates despite having finally been seated. So we ordered some drinks, since they were obviously being expedited much more quickly than those genius pies coming out of the wood fire oven. Before we knew it, we had a beverage spread that rivaled the food buffet we were awaiting. Drinks leftover from the garden bar, cocktails, and a beer my friend ordered purely for its nostalgic value. Some story about drinking it with a guy she used to know, I think. It was a Greenflash beer, all the way from San Diego.

I took a sip. And for some strange reason I was flooded with childhood memories. Not the kind where you remember an exact place and time, the way smelling burnt popcorn reminds me of the time my dad burned the Jiffy Pop over the fire during a camping trip in Idaho. But rather, the warm and pleasant kind, which make up for their elusiveness with the certainty that it doesn't matter anyway because these memories are somehow mystically significant. While my friend stared at me, puzzled but amused as to why drinking beer should remind me of my childhood, the taste became recognizable. It was orange blossom water. I was remembering those afternoons baking cookies with my mom. Our sablé cookies, basically the equivalent of the American sugar cookie, are a quick and simple cookie. Easy to make with kids, and even more easily prepared for classroom birthday parties or gift bags. You can cut them into whatever shape you desire, decorate them any which crazy way, and perfume them however strikes your fancy. And my mother most preferred was orange blossom water.

Who knew that the same floral, exotic taste I first encountered as a half-naked child running around our New Mexico backyard would resurface twenty years later and thousands of mile away in a cold brew, simultaneously reminding the person sitting across from me of an entirely different set of memories. I may very well be wrong about this beer containing any trace of orange blossom water, but one thing I am sure of - for a few seconds, both my friend and I were transported to a time and place vastly different from what we were currently experiencing. And then, the pizza arrived.

Cold beer, hot peanuts and honky tonk music

While exploring my new neighborhood one day, I walked by a brick-walled bar on a street corner. What caught my attention were the painted letters on their windows, which read "Cold Beer, Hot Peanuts" on one and "Honky Tonk Live Music" on the other. I made a point of returning there with my roommate within a week.

The beer is cheap yet fantastic (the Brooklyn Blast double IPA is a new favorite), the floor is covered with peanut shells and the live bands add a really fun if not overwhelming vibe. Truth be told I didn't even notice a band was playing the first time I walked in, until finally spotting them in a corner next to the bar. I might have been a little quicker to notice the people congregated in front of them bouncing around flailing their elbows and kicking their heels, but I was too busy sifting through their beer list.

Since my first visit, I've been back twice. In the same weekend. Guess I like my cold beer and hot peanuts. And I'm still not sure of the bar's actual name - I prefer to call it honky tonk.