Fried Fantasy: Cluck-cluck

Fried Fantasy: Cluck-cluck

I don't want my chicken to cluck. Rather, I want it to sizzle. Sizzle-sizzle-pop as those meaty legs and juicy, white breasts are dropped in boiling oil, after being dipped in batter and spiced. I want my chicken to sing to me—songs of indulgent pleasure and carefree calorie consumption. I want my chicken to be good. Good 'n' tasty.

And it was on a Sunday afternoon, hazy from a wild weekend, that I needed some fried delight to resuscitate a groggy mind. Pies 'n' Thighs, a Brooklyn beacon of down-home eats, came through. The Williamsburg joint is no-frills, and I wouldn't have it any other way. From the outside, it doesn't look like much—a simple, almost drab, windowed storefront without much of an entrance (except for a hand drawn sign that bares the restaurant name and an arrow, as well as a wood plank that reads in stencil "Fresh Apple Pie"). Lines spilled out of the door for a seat in the homey space, and when it came my party's turn to be seated, we were led past the open kitchen (the smells! the smells!), down a narrow hallway, and into a large, airy backroom with high ceilings, exposed brick walls and picnic blanket-patterned tables. We were seated right up against the table next to us, but when you're waiting for some fried chicken to arrive...everyone kind of becomes like family. Closeness, apparently, is an unavoidable consequence of this fried foray.

I went for the classic: Fried Chicken Box. Three pieces of expertly fried chicken with a buttermilk biscuit and your choice of side (I opted for the homefries—which tasted like they were cooked up on your aunt's dirty skillet [in a good way]—but also on offer are cheese grits, green salad, sausage gravy, bacon, fresh fruit, sausage patties and spicy black-eyed pea salad). The dish is not for the light of heart (and will soon render you NOT light of weight), but it is good. And when I say good, I mean decadently delicious. The crisp is perfect—like a fallen leaf underfoot at the advent of autumn. The flavor is kick-ass—made even better by liberal applications of hot sauce and honey (yes, together. No, I won't judge you if you don't judge me). The biscuits were a buttery dream—sizeable, moist, sturdy enough to sop up all of the wayward sauce.

I was in high hog heaven (hen heaven, maybe?). And I didn't want to leave. So, I ordered up some apple pie. The waitress asked me if I wanted that with aged cheddar or ice cream. I asked her if I was dreaming.

» Pies 'n' Thighs. 166 S. 4th St., at Driggs, 1.347.529.6090