[FIPS Was There...] Farewell 285 Kent

Photo via greatdesign.com

Is there any thing more Brooklyn than the letters D-I-Y? No, Maynard. There sure ain't. When it comes to the Brooklyn music scene, those three letters represent handfuls of venues that're often all ages & often in the Willyburg/Bushwick area & run independent of the Bowery/Live Nation system that lords over much of the city's concert venues.

Over the past few years, one of the more high-profile DIY Venues has been 285 Kent, a claustrophobic, 350-capacity room that's put on shows without the usual permits & whatnot on the far west side of Williamsburg. The venue, curated by Ric Leichtung (founder of Ad Hoc) and NYC DIY-venue impresario Todd P, hosted a mix of local acts, experimental acts & acts who were probably too big to be playing there. They had no liquor license but there was a bar. There were "No Smoking" signs but if you left not smelling like smoke, something was wrong. Sure you had to breathe the same oxygen as numerous hipster stereotypes, but it was always a good time.

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You Can Pick Your Bar But You Can't Pick Your Nose

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Cheers & shit, y'know? For years, being poor or antisocial or "fiscally responsible" meant that I didn't go out enough to establish a regular Brooklyn haunt. Then, a few years back, I threw fiscal responsibility out the window and found myself going out a lot more, allowing me to start becoming a regular at places. I'm fickle though, so when it comes to my watering holes, I go through phases.

It all started with Sea Witch, the South Slope bar that opened almost two years ago and quickly became a favorite of mine. Each time I visited, there was still the same mix of awesome music & food & always at least one new beer on tap. The giant fish tank behind the bar gave me the opportunity to ponder life, as I scanned the tank to see which fish had died since my last visit.

More recently, I became more Union St-centric and, as a result, found myself hanging out a lot at the end of the bar at the 5th Ave Zito's, sipping on Sixpoint & paying attention to some NBA game I had no stake in whatsoever.

Over the past few months, I moved down the street a bit and started spending a lot of time sampling the craft beer selection at High Dive. When picking a place to call my own, I'm always going to gravitate toward places with a good beer selection.

Sometimes I have blind spots though and, until this past Tuesday, had never stepped foot inside The Owl Farm, the relatively-new 9th St bar that opened up back in June of 2012, replacing er...beloved (?) neighborhood mainstay Harry Boland's Pub.

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BBQ is Dead. Long Live the Taco.

Brothers & sisters! Brothers & sisters! We come here today not to mourn the death of a BBQ joint. Oh no no no. Mourning is for ANOTHER morning. When death comes, we recite, we reflect, we remember & ultimately, we rejoice. We do not retire. Oh no no no.

Instead, we come here today to embrace the impending birth of a taco joint. Death brings life hallelujah lord give us a winter baby jesus amen!

Fort Reno is dead after a quick twenty-five months on the Slope's grey streets. Fort Reno was plucky. Fort Reno had heart. As a BBQ joint on Union St. named for a park in DC that's played host to Fugazi shows...much respect there. I attended an early preview of Fort Reno & from that point on, I found myself stopping by rather regularly, usually for a beer or two at the bar & a hot mess to go.

Since Fort Reno's opening, shit done changed. They added brunch. They added a taco/beer combo happy hour. The Hot Mess became their signature item. They added tacos to the menu. In the meantime, Fletcher's & Dinosaur & Morgan's opened their doors. BBQ became a little bit more real in Park Slope.

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Just Cheez It, Alf.

It's like a cheezy, iconic, gay Brit once said: "Saturday night's alright for fighting. Saturday night's alright. Alright. Alright. Woo Hoo Ooh Ooh."

It's like a cheezy, hacky teenager once said in the shitty follow-up to the shitty song that made her famous: "This Saturday we're gonna do it bigger than we ever have before."

It's like a cheezy bunch of 70’s era Scottish teenybopper heartthrobs once said: "It's just a Saturday night."

Guess what I did on Saturday night. Nope. Not cheese. Not even heroin. Nope. I didn't go to TGI Fridays and delight in the splendor that is their kitsch-adorned walls. TGI Fridays is more of a Friday thing. Since it was a Saturday smack dab in the middle of a pussy-snowstorm-induced three-day weekend, a few friends & I decided to travel all the way up the hills of Park Slope to 7th Ave, walking right past all the perfectly fine bars on 5th Ave.

The reason: A brand spanking new bar that just opened up in the old Bar 4 space (RIP and/or I never went there). The moniker: "American Cheez."

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Goldilocks & the Artisanal Porridge

Non-GMO. Gluten-Free.

Ok, great. Now that we've got that out of the way, it's time for a fairytale.

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of Breukelen, there lived a late-thirty-something male named Goldilocks. One weekend night, he found himself out wandering the streets of the posh Breukelen neighborhood of Parke Sloppe, imbibing & imbibing & imbibing.

Come the morn, aforementioned late-thirty-something male awoke to find himself famished, his mouth as dry as a wench's vagina and his head heavier than that same wench.

He left his home in search of sustenance and against all his instincts, made his way to Brooklyn Porridge, a month-old pop-up café in the space that's typically occupied in the non-winter months by Uncle Louie G's. Hyper-focus: Porridge. Slogan: "Comfort food redefined."

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