Chicken Wings and Other Things in the 'Lo

The trick to moving to this city is not to put on fifteen pounds in the first month.  We are the City of Buffalo, New York, and the waves of blue collar food still echo, even though most of the steel mills and granaries are rusted-down hollow.  Ghosts of warehouses, empty brick buildings falling in crumbles, and streets flanked by brownfields tell of long ago industry, when we earned the named "Queen City on the Lake" for all of the production and dispersion of materials accomplished.

Once a major railroad hub, Buffalo was the eighth largest city in the nation with more grain mills than anywhere else in the country.  You can still see remnants of the long-gone wrought iron industry curling around gated yards or up a run of stairs.  Our then factory workers were mostly men whose wives were home, walloping slews of potatoes into boiling pots for mashed with butter, opening cans of peas, and starting the chuck roast early enough in the day so that by supper the meat was a succulent foundation to the meal.  Applesauce.  Gravy.  Bread.  Ready.  Call the kids in.

When younger and headed home, walking down the street at dinnertime provided an impressive panoply of aromas, more so during the cool weather.  You could tell a roast chicken dinner with sage and onion stuffing from the warm tone of spaghetti sauce accompanied by a foil-wrapped garlic bread in the oven.  Roasts, chops, beef stew; the manifestation of household cooking skills filled the street with preferences and you knew when you were passing the Neibrich's, with the redolent fragrance of her sauerkraut laced with chunks of apple and onion.

It is still easy to eat as if you've been loading the furnaces with pig iron all day, or have been outside climbing and running and yelling, if a kid.  Perhaps the newer generations eat less, but I must tell you, it's hard to hold back.  There are so many local specialties; roast beef sliced on a caraway roll also topped with kosher salt, load on the horseradish.  Pierogi are fried in butter, and served with white cabbage, also fried in butter and finished with breadcrumbs: fried in butter.  We seem to have more pizzerias per neighborhood than most, fish frys are a holdover from Lent and served year round, and our char-broiled hot dogs from Ted's make grown people shed a tear for the old place under the Peace Bridge, Theodore's by the Lake.  Louie's has the best foot long that should go with an order of their curly fries.  Loganberry drink is served at both establishments, and is the perfect addition to a traditional dog.

On top of all this culinary manifestation, we have wings.  Having had wings outside the city, it astounds me how much people screw them up.  Add ins are not necessary, and the best thing to do is not mess around too much.  Fry them in properly heated oil until the skin is crisp, then toss them in a balance of melted butter and hot sauce.  No celery salt, Worcestershire, or garlic powder, people, unless you are inventing your own sort of anarchy.

Many places serve wings, one restauranteur mentioned that people eat more of them during winter than any other time, and most stick to the basics.  A bit of a competition exists between the two main purveyors for best wing; Duff's and the originator of the recipe, Anchor Bar.  I haven't been to the Anchor in a while, but I can vouch for what Duff's serves.  Both parts of the wing, the flat and the drum, are equal in crisp excellence and can be ordered from mild up to Armageddon.  We further show our adoration at Buffalo Wing Fest held on Labor Day weekend, being a conglomeration of the most dedicated wingnuts in the nation.

Sharing a meal is one of friendliest things you can do, and Buffalo is called the City of Good Neighbors for partly this reason: we feed you.  Newer immigrants are supplanting the old European stock, and also bringing what they cook for dinner with them.  There are plenty of parks and streets where you can walk it off.  Come on over.

So maybe you've had supper and are done for the day; there is something lucky here, that most of us can say that.  Chores are finished and papers tended, dishes put away and towels hung to dry.  Time to wind down and view the cold night from inside, but notice: the days are warming, and with still freezing nights that means the sap is beginning to rise in the maples.  Buds will swell and farmers will tap the trees for syrup making.  It will be March in a few hours, the month will introduce itself to each time zone as the clock passes midnight.  We look forward to the coming spring, even with eyes shut in slumber.  Good night world, good night friend.