In the past two decades, Williamsburg has built a conflicted reputation: With the onset of gentrification, what had been a patchwork of ethnic enclaves was infiltrated by a downwardly-mobile vanguard of artists and hangers-on. Renovations were made, storefronts opened, rent prices began to climb, and a new dynamic began to take hold in this gritty corner of Brooklyn. By the time I set foot in Williamsburg, the neighborhood’s transformation from bohemian outpost to full-fledged bourgeois community seemed to be approaching the point of critical mass.

“It’s been pretty good,” remarked a local barkeep on Grand Street, his disappointment masked by the comfort of working in his favorite bar, “but the neighborhood’s gonna turn any day now.” In a locale simultaneously branded with frontier appeal and burnished with the wealth of nations, it can be difficult to navigate the margin between growth and contraction. Bedford Street, lined with small space boutiques and gourmet eateries, could easily find a place in the East Village. Just one block over is Driggs, an eerie, time-lapsed shadow of Bedford punctuated by vacant lots and eroding walls. It isn’t uncommon to pass young mothers strolling with their babies during a walk to the metro. Nor is it strange to see urban youths playing on the streets and stoops with little more than a nod to the cadre of import Brooklynites moving in on all sides.

Like Williamsburg, the hole in the wall is an ironic milieu. In the suburbs, any restaurant smaller than a bedroom casts a shadow of awkwardness and inconvenience. In the big city, where monolithic constructs and unceasing avenues do little to satisfy the psychological need for closeness, this brand of inconvenience becomes vital in resuscitating one’s humanity. Meals take time, and time is not money. Seating space is made, not orchestrated. Cooks and customers are separated only by deed. Discomfort becomes consolation as a neglected pace of life reasserts its heartbeat.

An archetypical testament to this concept and to the contradictory character of the neighborhood sits on the bank of the East River. Here, under the auspices of the Williamsburg Bridge, a team of domestic deities slaves over a deep fryer, a griddle, a smoke pit and a hot oven to produce the daily wonder of Pies and Thighs.

Occupying the former beer closet of a dive bar, this labor of love brings a singular strain of home cooking to bear on its patrons, reinforcing the impression that Williamsburg is indeed a hood of neighbors and not a fulcrum of the invisible hand. Owners Sarah Buck and Carolyn Bane, along with their similarly aproned staff, treat the kitchen as if it were their own living space. Disposable gloves are nowhere to be seen, greetings are exchanged as casually as inside jokes, and every dish is made to order.

Pies and Thighs’ signature is Hell in a handbiscuit: a chicken breast fried to a deep blackened red, splashed generously with Louisiana style hot sauce and affixed almost apropos atop a mountainous buttermilk biscuit by way of Sarah Buck’s heart-caulking honey butter. The salty-sweet richness of the biscuit melts into the smoldering grit of the chicken for the perfect level of kick, resulting in a meal fit for Stonewall Jackson but priced for George McClellan.

Equally forceful is the house’s pulled pork shoulder, instilled with smoky wisdom and infused with the lifeblood of a tangy vinegar red pepper dip before it reaches the plate. After a dusting of salt and a dash of black pepper, the pork is topped with sliced pickle and a finely minced mayonnaise-and-vinegar based slaw, building a Brooklyn bridge from Carolina to Tennessee. This handiwork is usually served on a sandwich bun, but those in the spirit of invention can substitute a biscuit by special request.

Just as much care is tendered in the sides. The sweet grits, made from scratch and smothered in maple syrup and honey butter, retain an earthy, uneven consistency that yields an idyllic moment of struggle before melting in the mouth. The collard greens, as richly flavored as the pulled pork and doused with the same piquant sauce that graces the chicken biscuit, ring like a smoke-and-fire alarm on overcooked, oversalted greens everywhere.

At the bedrock of the restaurant, Pies and Thighs’ traditional southern fried chicken plays its role of gastronomic security blanket to the bone. If their chicken biscuit offers diners a free ticket across the river Styx, the heavenly bodies of their fried chicken box summon cardiovascular shipwreck like a siren. Its lightly floured, heavily fried crust is crisp and airy rather than rich and crumbly, having absorbed an impressive amount of oil without succumbing to the sloppy curse of excess grease. Each piece breaks away neatly to unmask the tender meat within and absolve the burden of choice between good and evil. After all, when the devil and the angel perched on one’s shoulders are both deep fried to perfection, the destination isn’t quite as relevant as the journey.

If Pies and Thighs is any indicator, the ever-blooming scene of Williamsburg has come to encapsulate both. As the neighborhood continues to extend affluent new roots beneath its enduring image of hep, a stirring sense of home has begun to shine. For all complaints aimed at the omens of urban renewal, the warmth of this country kitchen can do a lot to soothe the displaced soul. It may not be long before this juncture is priced out of existence, but when the chickens come home to roost at least there’ll be a deep fryer waiting to make good on their promises.

As of January 16, 2008, Pies and Thighs has closed due to conflicts with the Department of Health.
Sarah Buck has proclaimed that the restaurant will find a new location in South Williamsburg, to be opened in the summer of 2008.

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 23rd, 2007 at 10:30 pm and is filed under BBQ, Brunch, Deep Fried, New York, Soul Food.