Who doesn’t love chicken wings? Nobody doesn’t love chicken wings. Chicken wings are America’s snack. And today, during that big sportsball event that is reportedly going on someplace, Americans are expected to wolf down almost a billion-and-a-half chicken wings.
Now that’s showing some cluck.
During Super Bowl LIX, Americans are poised to gobble up 1.47 billion chicken wings, some 20 million more than last year, according to a forecast from the National Chicken Council (NCC).
The trade association’s estimate came ahead of the highly anticipated Big Game, when the Kansas City Chiefs and Philadelphia Eagles will go head-to-head in New Orleans for the NFL championship title.
Those wings “would stretch to and from GEHA Field at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City, Mo. to Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia, Pa. about 63 times,” the NCC said.
That many wings would certainly leave a hefty trail of buffalo sauce, too, which means the people who live along that trail of wings would have a bone to pick with whoever conducts this theoretical experiment.
Being a big fan of some chicken wings myself (although I admit I have no idea what the Super Bowl is all about), I can relate some memorable experiences. My favorite, of course, is my wife’s wings, which she cooks with a hot, low-sodium dry rub of her own making; she has refined that recipe over the years, and it’s nearly perfect. The best wings I’ve ever eaten in a commercial establishment were some years ago in a place in Raritan, New Jersey, at a place on the main drag called Nik’s Raritan Pub, where they used capon wings (huge) and a sauce their top chef had developed himself. In the year-and-nine-months I worked in New Jersey, I ate an absolutely shameful amount of those wings.
See Related: Carl’s Jr.’s New Super Bowl Ad Proves America Is Back
You Can’t Make an Omelette: Waffle House Slams Diners With Egg Surcharge
I also love hot food, and have an astronomical tolerance; for example, when I make my famous chili – I make the best chili in the known universe – I have to make two pots, one for the family, and one for me. That’s because my Colorado hunting partner and loyal sidekick, Rat (yes, we really call him that) is the only one besides me who can eat what our daughters call “Dad’s Thermonuclear Bowel-Basher Chili.” But there was this one time, back in the day, when a buddy of mine – I’ll call him Pete – decided to break new ground on hot chicken wings.
Pete has sworn to take the secret of the sauce he concocted that long-ago day to the grave, and for once, that’s probably just as well. This would have been around 1987 – I remember the year as I was between wives, so went to a bachelor’s New Year’s Eve party, where Pete tried his wings out on a bunch of us young, 20-something dudes. Once we were all gathered in a living room, with the stereo going and all of us with cold beers in our hands, Pete brought out a huge platter of wings.
They looked great. Big, plump wings coated in what looked like a thick, deep red sauce, with that wonderful bit of crispiness on the edges where the sauce cooked in. A rich, savory smell floated up from the platter.
One of the guys grabbed a wing, stuffed it in his mouth, and pulled meat from the bone with his teeth. He dropped the bone on the plate provided, and then just… stopped.
His eyes were open wide, and his face flushed red. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords weren’t cooperating. I remember thinking, well, most people can’t tolerate hot food the way I can – so I grabbed a wing and took a big bite.
For a moment, it wasn’t that much of a much. It was a savory flavor, spicy, with undertones of several kinds of peppers. Then, it hit me.
I felt as though someone had poured red-hot magma onto my tongue. My throat seized up. I broke out in a cold sweat, but the sweat boiled off my head as my face grew hotter and hotter. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. My oral mucosa was screaming at me, “You idiot, this is way outside operating specifications!” I dashed for the refrigerator, past the unbelieving stares of the other guys, and ended up finding a quart of whipping cream, which I poured down my throat. That helped some, but it was almost an hour before my head stopped sweating, and that long again before I could speak normally.
We scraped as much of the sauce as we could off the wings, which made them edible – barely. But, you know, waste not, want not. We ate them all, with only a few coughs, flop-sweats, and fainting spells caused by the remnants of Pete’s special sauce. It was several days before any of us could look at a picture of a chicken without recoiling in fear.
Yes, America loves chicken wings. I’m no exception. But moderation in all things is a good rule to live by – and that includes hot sauces.
