The Local. Fletcher’s Brooklyn Barbecue.

For too long, New York was a place where, if you wanted barbecue, you had to do some serious traveling or settle for a hunk of slow-cooked meat with a dash of liquid smoke on it. A few places have popped up here and there over the last decade that are legitimately smoking their meats, but they’re these big, sort of corporate feeling establishments that are clearly super-funded and absolutely overrun by a serious element of starched douche on any given afternoon after 5PM. Fletcher’s Brooklyn Barbecue put their stake in the ground just a few months ago in Gowanus and we are here to confirm that this place is the real deal.fletcher's brooklyn barbecue, fletcher's bbq, gowanus, 3rd avenue, barbecue, smoked meats, mac 'n cheese, bakes beansThis is down and dirty, no bullshit, make you weep with joy barbecue. Walking in off what is fast becoming a post-industrial Third Avenue, we were immediately drawn to the simplicity inside. There is a counter with a chopping block, cash register and a hot food display case packed with Fletcher’s freshly smoked meats. Ribs, burnt ends, brisket, chicken, hot links….you get the idea. Behind the counter is the giant furnace-like smoker that the pit master keeps going all day with a combination of freshly cut red oak and maple from just a stone’s throw upstate. Get what you want, but do not leave without Fletcher’s Brooklyn Barbecue Pit-Smoked Baked Beans or the whoops-my-arteries-just-clogged Chili Mac ‘n Cheese. And for God’s sake, get the Chopped Pork Sandwich. Squeeze a little of their tangy sauce over that smoked fatty swine on a soft potato roll and you’ll be humming Dixie with each and every perfectly crafted bite.fletcher's brooklyn barbecue, fletcher's bbq, gowanus, 3rd avenue, barbecue, smoked meats, mac 'n cheese, bakes beansAside from the kick ass grub, what we loved about Fletcher’s is there was absolutely zero pretense. Come in, order your food, sit down, your drinks arrive, they call you for your food, you eat a little, and maybe the pit master or some other nice lady or fella pops over to see how you’re doing. And if you can can stand to keep the forkful of mac outta your face long enough, you’ll manage to tell them how insanely happy you are. And then you’ll leave. Full. Happy. Smoky. Stop.

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