Prime Fucking Rib

Last night, we decided to cruise by Queen’s Hideaway and see what she was cooking up for the evening.

Immediately, I noticed two important changes: the pin-the- tale-on-the-donkey game had been replaced by a dark and poorly hung oil painting, and there were bottles of wine and cans of PBR on the tables.

Note on PBR:
Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, where I come from, is one of those beers known to appear at parties down by the river, on hunting weekends for big bellied boys and their coon dogs, and of course drinking while driving. It is now a hot Hipster commodity, the ultimate statement in the way-cool of G-Point & Willy B. F

Fearing that something might have gone terribly wrong here, we stared surreptitiously at the plate of food flying past us. It looked & smelled great, so we decided to stay.

On the menu, two things caught my eye: a lamb dish served au jus style with slices of thick fried onions, and the
Prime Fucking Rib.

It’s been a while since I’ve had Prime Fucking Rib, or any prime rib for that matter, and since wine is now available, I thought, “What the heck. Prime Fuckin’ Rib. I can handle it.”

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Nostalgia:
I remember a time when Prime Rib was something that we got on Sundays, after church, when my father was feeling like a million bucks and none of us had complained about our
penance or the fact that Mikie Brockman was shooting spit balls during the homily. The Prime Rib would be laid out for all to see, and a waiter in a white coat would carefully slice off thick slabs of meat, and we would get a twice-baked potatoes and some glazed carrots. We were living large.

The Queen’s Prime Fuckin’ Rib is a wholly different affair. There is no waiter in a white apron. In fact, I don’t think that, properly speaking, the all purpose staff at the Hideaway can be called waiters at all. They are more like intermediaries between diner and chef, between now and that grand moment when the food arrived.

It took a while, but when the food DID arrive, the Prime Fuckin’ Rib was spectacular. Cooked to tender perfection, the PFR was topped with a pile of caramelized sweet onions and accompanied by a buttery tartelette of gruyere and grilled asparagus. Some crisp haricot verts added a nice bit of color. I ate these with my fingers, perhaps shocking the film festival chatterboxes sitting next to us. But I don’t fuckin’ care. Sometimes, there is nothing more satisfying than picking up a haricot with my fingers and then crunching into it with glee.

The Hideaway is STILL worth the trip to Greenpoint , so for those of you out there who fear the G train or who have to have a 212 area code at all times, you are
missing out on some real fun.

Also, several new and fun bars have opened all along Franklin.Come quick before we are all priced out of the neighborhood.