The religious right doesn't want you to know this, but there's a miraculous substance that can fuel new life amidst blighted atrophy. Yes, we're talking about alcohol. Now, it's resurrecting a crumbling tenement: Brooklyn Public House.
Injecting boozy vibrance into the tetanus-y splinters of a dilapidated 19th Century candy store now totally retrofitted with reclaimed wood wainscoting and old monastery benches, BP's a skinny gastropub from a trio of Fort Greeners who, despite being Manhattan bar vets, wanted to get you drunk closer to their home. Grub's a giant's pantload of Texas-inflected comfort food running from hot dogs and wings, to braised short ribs, to battered fish/buffalo chicken/pulled pork sliders, to pizza served in cast iron skillets (useful for menacing while demanding another 2am pizza). As for suds, BP's tapping mostly usual suspects, plus some micros (Belhaven Stout, Old Speckled Hen, Coney Island Lager); the 25 bottles include internationals like Germany's Jever, China's Tsingtao, and Thailand's Singha -- one of the first lagers brewed in that country, leading directly to other great ideas, like boxing with broken glass.
Come Spring, BP'll toss out some outdoor seating, where you'll avail yourself of another miraculous life-giver. That's right, we're talking about sodomy. No, no, sunscreen.
