Williamsborg. Resistance is Futile.

Williamsborg is a weekly food festival in—you guessed it—the molten core of hipsterdom: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY. It’s a foodie spinoff of the massively successful (and also extremely hip) Brooklyn Flea vintage flea market.

Actually, Williamsborg is apparently something I just made up. The real event is called Smorgasburg. But hey, I like my Star Trek joke, so I’m just gonna stick with Williamsborg, thankyouverymuch.

I went to Williasmborg to assimilate into Brooklyn food culture—to meld my living tissue with cutting-edge reinterpretations of street foods from around the world.

I started at Bon Chovie. They airlift anchovies from the Mediterranean Sea to New York, fry’em, and serve’em with pickled peppers and smoked paprika mayo. I got mine “Jersey Style” which means you eat the head. The anchovies were delicious, but the heads tasted like cat food.

I ended up nibbling around the heads.

I love the turkey legs at Disneyland and Renaissance Fairs (they’re even better at Ren Fairs because they’re both yummy and functional as emphatic gesture to accompany shouts of “Huzzah!”).

But those crazy kids in Williamsburg have kicked things up a notch adding lots of sugar and autumn spices (maybe nutmeg or allspice — do I detect a pinch of mace?).

The turkey leg purveyor caught me photographing the leg and asked if I wanted my picture with it.

She suggested I pose as the “Statue of Liberty.”

The vibe at Williamsborg is perfect. It’s on the water, lots of booths, and romantic a view of the city.

This is the cheapest riverfront dining in the five boroughs.

I overheard a guy say this pork was like the one at Momofuku, a well-regarded restaurant I never made it around to.

I thought it looked better than it tasted, and the pork fat was crystallized into dried pork shards. Overrated!

Another real dud was this charred plate of fried chicken and waffles from Buttermilk Channel.

To be fair, my poorly-chosen Instagram filter isn’t helping things, but man oh man was that shtuff burnt!

I couldn’t get Rachel to go with me to the ‘borg (I guess resistance was not futile in her case) and as you can imagine, I was getting pretty full after demolishing all that you have seen so far (that turkey leg was a killer). Full, bloated, and defeated, I contemplated writing my last will and testament on a greasy receipt. Instead, I decided to leave, having only tackled less than 10% of the festival’s total offerings.

And then, I saw a sign that said “We Fry in Bed Stuy” and this…


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