I've been away from Brooklyn for three long months. Enough time for someone talented to plop down an excellent southern-style sandwich shop near my apartment. They call themselves Van Horn and they must have sold their souls to the devil. They made me a pulled pork sandwich for lunch that singlehandedly removed both my jetlag and the bonechill I'd acquired on the walk over.
I've had the afternoon to ponder and now I'm sure - this is the best sandwich that my senile mind can remember. I remove the bun-hat to show you the smokey pulled pork, slaw and unseen sprinkles of vinegar. I downed it in what seemed like a singular gulp and there was the waitress, asking me how I liked her suggestion. "Holy shit" was all I could think to say. She smiled nervously, though in her defense I was dressed like a homeless and hadn't showered since Paris.
231 Court Street