Broken Fish and Bad Vibes at Brooklyn's New Pies 'n' Thighs

Peace y’all,

A few weeks ago, I took a destination-agnostic stroll through Brooklyn. One of the greatest pleasures I have living in New York City is it can (mostly) accommodate aimless wandering, with the ability to quickly rearrange your itinerary when you feel summoned. I was somewhere in Crown Heights when I decided I needed a cornmeal-dusted fried catfish meal. Like, immediately. It was past lunch hours, but a bit early for dinner. Perfect timing for an all-day restaurant serving up Southern goodness.

I found my way to the newly opened location of Pies ‘n’ Thighs on Flatbush Ave at St. Marks Ave. The original location opened in Williamsburg in 2006, and the newest one sits at the edge of Prospect Heights and Park Slope.

Depending on who you ask, the area is considered by many old heads (a warm reference to natives) to be an extension of Flatbush—the neighborhood with a cultural designation of the “Little Caribbean.” The intersection is not far from where the Barclays arena development upended hopes for affordable housing within the context of Park Slope being a historic home to many Black families. In today’s onslaught of NYC gentrification, displacement, and racialized deed theft, who you are and what ideas you bring with you affects how the community receives you.

The host, who I’d later learn was a manager, greeted me and directed me to a counter seat of my choosing. I sat at a counter stool facing the view of the street with my back to the interior of the restaurant. I waited.

After a few minutes, I still didn’t have a menu, so I turned to look for who my server might be. A man made eye contact with me, and he soon headed over with nothing in hand. 

“Are you dining in?” he asked. He looked like he’d had a day.

“I would like to,” I began, looking around curiously. The restaurant wasn’t visibly busy (no idea what their online orders looked like) but I wondered whether I’d sat myself incorrectly. What about me sitting at a counter where you offer full service suggests I wouldn’t be there to eat? I wasn’t offended, but I noticed it. He nodded then walked away, reappearing moments later with a menu, a carafe of water, and a glass. “I was directed to sit here,” I continued.  

“You’re good,” he said. 

I ordered my food: Catfish with two sides. I asked for the greens and coleslaw. 

“What?” he prodded, leaning forward. “Coleslaw and…?”

“Greens,” I repeated. Then, off of a feeling, I pointed to the menu item and said, “Collard greens.”

“Ohhh,” he replied. “Collards.”

I was a bit annoyed with this exchange. It felt unnecessarily corrective. It also felt culturally dismissive—regionally and racially. My server was white. Rarely is there a benefit in a server correcting a diner at the point of ordering. Especially when you have started off by assuming that the guest was not your guest. Especially do not correct me when you lack the parlance for an American staple that your company has had twenty years of experience in serving. If you have collard greens stewed with smoked pork on your menu, a distinctly Black American staple born in the Southern United States, you ought to be able to support your staff by sharing known parlance for the dish. Greens. That’s what I said.

When my plate arrived, the expo brought it to me. I have to say, I don’t love being served food from behind me or over my shoulder. Why are things coming out of nowhere? Am I a Muppet? You’ll often see the food emerge before you register the person, and they always seem to be floating away before they have time to say, “catfish plate” to your face, or give you an opportunity to ask for something additional if you need it.

Doesn’t take much effort to present yourself within the individual’s eye line. The expo was off on her way before I could even say thank you. But I immediately registered that one of the catfish fillets was broken open. Steam emanated from the white flesh. I turned toward her, and she had to stop and turn around to hear me. “Excuse me,” I said “but is this how this was plated?” In other words: Did you break open my food on purpose?

I have worked in restaurants at various junctures in my life, including recently when I worked in Brooklyn and Manhattan. (If you want to ruffle the feathers of colleagues in New York media, show up at a trending place in a uniform chore coat. The stories I have! The shock I witnessed! People were worried about me, which I think says a lot about what media professionals think of hospitality professionals.)

If someone asks if what you brought them was intentional, you ought to pause and seek more information. Especially if you are the expo. The expo is the last person standing between kitchen hiccups (or server mistakes) and the guest. (In some cases, that person is the runner.) But the expo should be quality control no matter what. As she wore a white chef’s coat, I anticipate she had more responsibility than that. The plate I’m asking about didn’t just get past you while you worked a station, you brought it to me yourself. As my great aunt Babe would say, “Ma’am?”

My restaurant training began in high school during the binder-length handbook era of Red Robin (and bottomless fries lore). We were expected to ensure that a plate (or basket) didn’t land in front of a guest without being perfect in every demonstrable way. My training ensured that even if I missed the broken fillet, upon a guest pointing it out to me, I would have made a U-turn with plate in hand to have the dish re-presented. At worst, I would be hightailing it back to the kitchen to request a perfect fillet on the side. The correction shows care and attentiveness. It demonstrates that we have more respect for ourselves than to give a guest less than what we aim for. I’ve worked at fancier places but the Red Robin example underscores that marketing your restaturant as casual should not mean that you’re lazy.

But the expo simply responded, “Yes,” with a touch of coolness that I felt unnecessary. As in, yes, I saw your broken-ass fish, and that’s what you’re getting for dinner, lady.

I looked at my plate for a moment. The fish smelled amazing. It looked fine other than that glaring error. This was a gorgeous spring day. I had a new pre-roll in my bag and I was eager to get to that part of my evening. I hadn’t planned on being in “work mode” with my professional dining cap on. I hadn’t planned to document my meal in any meaningful way. I turned again to see the expo, in her chef’s whites whispering into the ear of my server who was now looking in my direction. Two frenemies now!

The expo, perhaps less conscious of the dynamics of “the floor” as we call it in hospitality, had her back to me. I was looking at her make what seemed to be colorful commentary about our exchange as the server leaned into her, while looking at my plate. He of course, realized before she did, that I was seeing them, while she was obviously talking about me. He hesitated, giving her half-a-second to realize they were not exactly alone. She turned toward me, both of them now seeing me see them. Oops! She sped off to the pass and stayed there. So we both think the other is a bitch. Amazing.

I spoke directly to the server who was two steps away. “Yes,” I said, “as you just heard, I was asking her whether this was plated this way intentionally.”

Another invitation to correct. He replied, “OK.” I didn’t interact with him again.

Why would I want an entrée of fish that looked like it had been broken apart either intentionally or carelessly? Either way, this is not the dream Pies ‘n’ Thighs is selling. What other dish on their menu would they present broken open to a guest?

A fried egg during breakfast with the yolk already cascading around the plate?

A drumstick with the batter coating broken open to reveal the chicken meat?

A slice of sour cherry pie with the top crust cracked and oozing out of the top with filling?

It was as though I’d ordered a dirty martini and fussed at the olive garnish. I sat with myself for a moment. What was I wrestling with here? I did go ahead and dive in. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but I had to at least try the food. Dear reader, the greens (EXCUSE ME, COLLARDS) were awful. They hadn’t been cut properly so I found myself fighting what felt like a palm frond. They weren’t served hot enough, and they needed salt. The coleslaw was so acidic, I could barely muster a full bite. I doubt anyone had tasted that batch. I nibbled the cornbread that was dense and is exactly why people think they don’t like cornbread. The fish was actually decent. But I didn’t enjoy it.

I considered other expressions of fried fish, a West African shoreline staple reinterpreted in the Americas through the history of slavery. Catfish didn’t become a beloved dish until Black people made it delicious (like so many other recipes), by fishing for the bottom-feeder in rivers, swamps, and streams, cooking with ancient techniques and the ingredients available to them.

Black people, African people in the Americas, ate fish to feed communities through the era of enslavement and that tradition persevered into family dinners, intergenerational reunions, summer picnics, and church-hosted gatherings. I wrote about this in Marcus Sameulsson’s cookbook, The Rise. In the book, I interviewed award-winning writer and historian Adrian Miller who shared about Campbell Chapel African Methodist Episcopal in Denver, established in 1886. They maintain a history of cultivating celebration and fellowship with dishes like fried fish to this day.

Now I was mad.

Because Famous Fish Market uptown in Harlem would never! Jus Fishy in Flatbush had never done me this way with their flaky fried whiting, and all their food comes in a box. I even reflected on the Salt Box Seafood Joint in Durham, North Carolina, where in 2021, I dined with dear friends and colleagues in food culture storytelling (Von Diaz, Victoria Bouloubasis, and Brigid Ransome Washington who’s memoir just hit shelves). Owner and chef Ricky Moore, whose work at Salt Box earned him the 2022 James Beard Award for Best Chef Southeast, would absolutely never. His seasonal offerings from bluefin tuna to king mackerel, to clams, to triggerfish are cooked perfectly and beautifully presented, whether fried or griddled. These examples are Black-owned and at least a couple of them serve a primarily Black clientele. They have respect for the food they serve and respect for the people who eat it.

So what was happening with Pies ‘n’ Thighs? LIES? What about me (or fried catfish) says that this is how you treat a guest? For $20? Dining in a full-service restaurant? When I asked you politely? Twice? Fuckouttahere.

I’d already heard rumblings about a friend’s experience at this location of Pies ‘n’ Thighs, and it wasn’t great. My friend is a business owner of a retail shop nearby. As such, she’s on the receiving end of constant foot traffic and hundreds of brief but detailed conversations on any given week. I pop in there often, so I have seen for myself the speed at which hyperlocal “word of mouth” can travel. Restaurateurs are often worried about early media appearances in the dining room, but they need to be worried about the neighbors! Not every business out here can be a destination for dining. You need the people nearby to give a damn.

My friend went to Pies ‘n’ Thighs during their first week open, not to judge them, but to support another local spot in a time when we’re losing longstanding independently owned restaurants all over Brooklyn due to exorbitant rent hikes. Upon arrival, she and her companion were asked what kind of seating they wanted, and they expressly requested to be seated at a table. The host quoted a wait time, and so they took a stroll and waited.

When they were called back earlier than the time quoted, they were excited. But upon reentry to the restaurant, they were offered counter seating. This wasn’t going to work. They’d been invited to share a preference, and they made their preference clear. That should have been the end of the discussion. The host should have immediately accommodated or requoted the time for an actual table. According to my friend, this exchange went back and forth multiple rounds before they finally got a new wait time—just before a manager swept in when he saw them leaving.

I shouldn’t have to give you demographic data to make this point, but my friend and her dining partner are larger in size. One of them is a senior citizen. Sitting at narrow, backless stools were not a viable option for either woman, and my friend shouldn’t have had to point this out. Both of these women are New York natives and Black. Do we have to go into the history of Black people not being accommodated in American dining right now? What did the host need to hear? “I’m fat and can’t sit there”? Do we have a pattern of cultural obtuseness at Thighs? Is anyone asking them for anything they don’t already offer? Why is no one ready!

I spent my teenage years in Southern California where we had a Black-owned fast-food restaurant, Louisiana Seafood (they’re still going). Their main offerings were catfish, red snapper, whiting, jumbo shrimp, and filet of sole. They also did a solid wings business, but that’s not what my family was talking about. You could get fried catfish fillets by the piece, the same way most of y’all order fried chicken. Run it up! Hot sauce and tartar sauce in ramekins ready to eat. They used to take forever to complete your order, but it was worth it. They made a slammin peach cobbler, too. As a child, I understand that this was Southern food, Black food. I understood that restaurant as an expression of the Great Migration and Black Southern culture finding its way to the Inland Empire, the suburbs of Los Angeles that became home for Black families experiencing the resource drain of redlining and White Flight in the city.

You don’t just get to be a random company jumping into the marketing of “Southern-inspired” food while serving up Black dishes rooted in Black experiences and culture. You do not get to Cracker Barrel yourself into reimagining where this food comes from. I don’t know what kind of casualties of culture have been going on at the Williamsburg location of Pies ‘n’ Thighs. That part of Brooklyn has sadly been feeling like the new SoHo since I’ve moved here just before the pandy (so much of its Puerto Rican history has been erased). But this kind of carrying on? Ain’t going to work on Flatbush Ave, baby. You’re on the route of the dolla vans and the B41! Somebody call Zohran.

I did have the opportunity to speak quietly with the manager who’d directed me to sit at the counter. (A white couple who was seated next to me suddenly had nothing to say to one another while I spoke to the young woman. I know they couldn’t wait to unpack that convo when I left!) 

I explained to the manager how off-putting it was to be questioned as to my intentions after already being seated. If the counter is also for people waiting for a to-go order, I offered that perhaps by seating diners with flatware or a menu, that could signal to other staff that this person is dining in and therefore avoid a guest being perceived as someone the staff doesn’t need to pay attention to. I showed her the photo I took of the broken fillet, and we played a version of the Sesame Street game, what here doesn’t belong?

As sweet as she was to me, it took her a minute. Coincidentally, I sent the same photo to two Black folks in NYC, one from Georgia who resides in Brooklyn. From where?, one of them asked after seeing the plate. They laughed when I told them. In Black American culture you do not fuck with peoples’ food. You do not even allow the possibility as to whether the food has been fucked with. I do not understand presenting broken food to people and being surprised when they hesitate to eat it. We still cheers our beverages and look each other in the eyes for gods sake! And I’ve never dined with a medieval spy in my life.

I asked the manager: Pie, eggs, fried chicken—what else would you serve this way, then twice dismiss an opportunity to correct it? She acknowledged they would never do that. She almost laughed at how obvious it seemed. She apologized, she discounted my bill, and she sent me home with a slice of pie. I appreciated it.

My server and the expo looked over at me while I was speaking to the manager. I left feeling the remnants of others’ exasperation. Even several weeks later, I remember their irritation more than the damn fish. As TLC sang, I will be sticking to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to.

What feels ominously familiar is watching people make money and be indignant with a culture that’s not theirs, without any curiosity or care for the people whose history allow them to experiment with a legacy that doesn’t belong to them.

How can you hate the origins of the cultural narrative that feeds you? Fix it, Jesus! ⭑