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.