My son and other friends who come into town invariably land at one of the two more prominent wingeries, and on his last visit, the young man and I decided to try the other as compared to the usual choice. For comparison reasons, you see. No sense in getting stale by loyalty, who knows, it pays to explore. We did, we lived through it, and the results are in.
I am not naming names, you can Google your hot-sauced heart out and perhaps make a good guess as to which establishment emerged victorious. We entered a much-decorated with nostalgic doodads eatery, welcomed warmly by the host, and toddled into a very crowded arena jammed with circular tables. Over there were people obviously visiting the city, for they spoke in a broken English not often heard around here, filling four tables. Maybe a tour group. Our adventure was anticipated as reflected in the faces of the notable company, lovingly hanging on to each morsel in a delicate, four-fingered fashion, the neatest way to eat these things. Platters heaped and sauced traveled by, held aloft over heads in one-armed push ups, wafting heat and grease like a trailing bridal veil.
The waitress appeared, and here we go. You kids want anything to drink? She was tired, running through the patter that gets her tips, and forgivingly mechanical. It wasn't the service that we were interested in anyhow, so the shotgun makeup and black tights pulled over a tummy that was as old as Howdy Doody were just part of the scenery. She slapped our waters down and asked if we guys wanted 10 20 30? Prices on the menu were hiked up a buck or more due to the iconic reputation of the place, so $11 for 10 wings was as much as I wanted to spend. 10? She sighed at our amateur status.
They didn't take long to arrive, and this is where the true critique began. My son had ordered extremely hot, he takes them combustible suicidal, but this was no where near his threshold. Mine were fine regarding the mild dowsing requested, but here is the first disappointment. Technically, one isn't supposed to count how many drums and flats come together, for line cooks actually do try to even things out as best as possible, but this plate held eight flats and two drums, a breach of wing etiquette on their part.
Not a big deal, as a drum is enjoyable, but I do prefer the flats and have perfected a method of twisting out the smaller of two bones, leaving a neater package to delicately absorb. However, these wings had been deep fried to the point of a Happy Dog chew toy and shattered into shards when crunched; it was work to get there, my friend. I thought of my new front incisor cap and negotiated select dental maneuvering. These things would have knocked out a pigeon if launched from a slingshot, they were that hard. My former point of view on this place was severely reinforced, all flash and history, and I tried to find the You Kids blast of lipstick that was our waitress. She was somewhere, but not where anyone could see until time for the bill.
Well, par for the course; but now we turn to the other renowned setting of chicken wing nation. There is no welcoming committee, you may have to sign in while waiting for a table which can take up to twenty minutes; the place is a dark bar until you enter the dining area. Tables are set up in parallel with kitchenette chairs. No frills, no doodads, and the floor may be sticky. Waitresses fly, dashing off drinks and menus if you need one, most of them college age without anything slick about them. They haven't time, for they are running with plates and buckets of wings and french fries.
The wings here are heavily sauced if you order the very hot, suicidal, or death variety; a white plastic bucket is handed out for gathering remains. It is the usual wing place for our crowd, and each time, the wings have been done well, succulent inside, crisp outside with a fairly even split between the two components of wing anatomy. Priced a dollar less than the previous establishment, there has never been a disappointment. Again, you are packed close, but this place attracts regulars which also says something about quality and atmosphere.
You can get decent wings just about anywhere in this area, I think there is an unspoken pledge of not messing with a good thing too much. Little happens in the way of newish recipes; when I worked in restaurant it was butter, hot sauce, and toss in the wings. No pinches of celery salt (eesh) garlic powder or marination necessary. Keep it simple, dig in.
Is it the dark northern winters that create a longing for sturdy food, comestible stuff that pushes you through the shadow days? Honest to everything, the city has gotten only 3 inches of snow so far, and it's the first week of January; our lake is still quite warm, so I imagine we will get socked in eventually. We really don't get the snow that media blather suggests, just sometimes. But we love our food, and you would, too.
Sleep well, in a winter sleep deep and drowsy, silent and still. Good night, friends.
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