Our friends over at Bedford + Bowery have posted a poignant, first-person account of one man’s completely serious woes, which began just as soon as he and his wife moved upstairs from Fette Sau in Williamsburg. Beguiling notes of rendered pork fat and wood smoke began to trickle through his apartment like phantoms, Noah Mackert writes, and meanwhile, inebriated people drinking bourbon neat and eating ribs late into the night made it hard for the couple to fall asleep. Mackert loves the ‘cue, but in what unfolds like a classic fable, or perhaps an Ira Levin novel, he starts carrying a secret barbecue shame and worrying about “feeling like a man in a trench coat” should he deign to enjoy a meal at Fette Sau by himself. There’s a bittersweet ending to the tale, too, but even that’s overpowered by the greatness of brisket. [Bedford + Bowery]
