“Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his fingers.”
—Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Scene 2.
In Williamsburg, Brooklyn, land where hipsters dwell, pleasant surprises are not hard to find. Incredible food, quirky stores, and colorful characters can be found on every street. Mable’s Smokehouse is one such hidden gem–an affordable, spacious restaurant where the smell of smoke-cooked meat fills the air, and a thousand perfect flavors dance on every plate–from the pulled pork sandwiches, to the baked beans, to the impossible choice between key lime and peanut butter pie (it’s like asking Sophie to choose between her children–you must have both).
I was dining on a tender brisket there, when I was inspired to pen the following lines of verses. I shall name it “Sonnet 155”:
Sometimes the flavor’s missing from the earth,
And every sky is grey, each meadow bare,
With all we seem to love bereft of worth.
And though we long for comfort, no one cares.
It’s times like these our mind demands a cure
That no mere deli sandwich can us bring.
That cure’s in meat and smoke and flavor pure–
These are the foods that make our spirit sing.
At Mable’s, where pulled pork and brisket taste
Of heaven, and homemade sauce that covers all
The tend’rest morsels. So sweet, you’ll leave no waste–
You’ll clean your plate, for so it does enthrall
The soul, that every wondrous scrap you’ll eat.
No sadness can endure such perfect meat.