Fette Sau

If you could take just one photo: Donald Sutherland and an empty tray

My father loves BBQ. He is 79, tall, a native of Crown Heights. Not the guy you expect to see shouting over the din to flirt with pretty German tourists at Fette Sau. Nonetheless, there we were, ogling the lists of brisket and sausage and sides by the pound. We over-ordered. How could we not? We had lost all self control. There we were, sucking on ribs until the bones were dry, until we thought we would need to have those pretty German tourists roll us out the doors and down to the G train station. As soon as we got home, my father, glimmer in his eye, turned to me and asked, "So, when are we going back?"

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The vultures are circling but the carrion at Fette Sau isn't the smoked meat or the barbecued chicken. In a place where demand is easily twice the capacity, diners whose butcher papered-trays have been cleared and yet still dare to linger sipping their beer had better cover their heads before the beaks start pecking. And no wonder. The gleaming Berkshire pork belly melts on your tongue, the spicy sausage makes your pale ale taste sweeter, and the juicy, tender beef brisket makes you want to send your friend back to the end of that slow and terribly long line.

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