Here’s a question for the ages– is The Bedford Stop still The Bedford Stop if the girls go to South Florida for the holidays? The title of the newest episode from Williamsburg’s most lovable residents, “Holidays Without Hollandaise,” implies that the girls are gonna be roughin’ it while holed up in America’s dangler. Whatever will they do without Cafe Colette? If you can stand to imagine an episode without brunch, then venture forth. Although given that Dubai is making moves to stage a junta of Williamsburg’s title for Most Depraved Brunch, we maybe would have preferred a special “City of Gold”-edition of America’s favorite reality show. Somebody get these girls a Fulbright grant.
Our favorite show of the millennium, The Bedford Stop has released a new clip (via Gothamist) and it’s imperative you drop whatever it is that you’re doing and see it. Because clearly, there’s nothing more “relevant” out there. As Alex told us over cocktails at Café Colette back in November, “Williamsburg is extremely relevant, the things we do are extremely relevant, and why not broadcast that if we have someone who’s willing and has the connections to do it?”
The fact that a reality show about brunching in Brooklyn now exists is clear indication that we’ve reached the Golden Age of Not-on-Television Television, which can only mean it’s all down hill from here, baby.
“You have to see this,” my friend texted me a couple weeks back. “This girl I met on Tinder, she has her own reality show.”
When I got around to watching The Bedford Stop, I found myself glued to my laptop screen unable to tear my eyes away from this group of young women who simply had to be joking. Not only did they fallaciously declare that they moved to Williamsburg “to pursue their dreams” and to “avoid reality,” but the YouTube show seems to perfectly capture post-gentrification New Williamsburg: the overwhelming whiteness of it all, omnipresent Ikea furniture, blasé consumerism, vocal fry, and above all, brunch.
I live above a barbecue restaurant in Williamsburg called Fette Sau. It offers meats that have been sugared, smoked, and roasted until they are soft and sweet, like candy. It’s a popular place.
When my fiancée and I moved in, we were worried about the noise, since our apartment is directly above their outdoor seating area. Our bedroom window, in fact, is only 50 feet away from the active mouths of the patrons, and while smoking is not allowed, drunken storytelling certainly is. We go to bed early – I’m a school teacher, and she’s a medical resident – and for the first few nights we lay awake until midnight, grinding our teeth with rage, wishing death on these people and their stupid stories, these people who could stay up late drinking bourbon and eating ribs on a Wednesday.
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Have you ever wondered, “Who lives above that place?” Introducing Life Above.
You may not know them by name, but you definitely know Milon, Panna II, and Royal by sight: they’re the Bangladeshi-Indian restaurants with all the Christmas lights that share the same building on First Avenue between Fifth and Sixth Streets.
In between Milon and Panna II — flanked by two sidewalk barkers competing to pull people in — is a door that leads to 16 apartments, including the second-floor studio where Lawrence Chance, 50, has lived for 20 years. He recently welcomed us in to discuss the upsides and downsides of life above the iconic East Village businesses. (In case you’re wondering: no, his apartment didn’t smell like curry.)
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