Damn! Those wings are hot!
A lesson learned
Jim LaJoie
A buddy of mine is a former merchant marine, now a lawyer. He is a guy’s guy in many ways, including being very competitive. Here’s an example of his competitive nature: many years ago, he found an old table hockey game in his mother’s garage, dragged it out, cleaned it up a bit and called me to come over “so that I can beat your ass in this game.” I went over that weekend and beat his ass three games in a row at which point he said he didn’t want to play anymore. After our second beer he was able to speak again. As I said, he is a competitive guy.
I tell you this to supply background on the following story:
We both love hot chicken wings. When we both were in our thirties (me in my late, he in his early) we went through a period of a few months where whenever we hung out, we would look for the place that served the hottest chicken wings we could find. We were on a quest. Since we knew the strength of wings in the pubs we typically haunted, we began exploring places we hadn’t been. Our quest took us to national chains, local restaurants and divey bars. We scoffed at the hotness of all their wings. Until one day we stumbled upon a place that ended, once and for all, our wing expedition.
This place was the definition of non-descript. The small restaurant sat between a gas station and an old house that may have once been proud, but whose better days had long passed. There was a sign with the restaurant’s name on it, but it had faded to where you had to fill in the blank’s, Wheel-of-Fortune style. It had one dirty picture window, the parking lot was a mix of dirt and broken pavement and the nicest car there was about 10 years old. What made my buddy brake fast and turn left into the lot was a wooden sidewalk sandwich-board sign that advertised “the hottest wings in town.” “Well, we are going to see if that is true,” my buddy said with a smile.
The place could have sat about 50 or so, but here it was around 7 pm in the middle of the week and there were only two couples in different booths. This wasn’t a place where a reservation was needed. There was a counter in the middle of the place where my buddy and I sat down. The middle-aged server who came over could have been cast in a movie looking for someone to play that role. Her face was weathered and leathery and her voice must have been the result of too many cigarettes and shots of whiskey. You could tell this lady didn’t take shit from anyone.
She came over, in a weary and resigned way, and we ordered two Buds. After bringing back the beers, she asked us if we wanted anything to eat. My buddy – and I saw this coming before he opened his mouth – said with a smile “we want to see if your sign is right. We will tell you if you really do have the hottest wings in town.” He probably thought he was charming, but the server did not share his assessment.
One thing you need to know about my buddy is that he loves to bust people. His teasing never has an undertone of nastiness, however, like it does with some guys. He likes people. Most people he knows and meets see him as a likeable, playful kind of guy. The server was not one of those people. About 15 minutes later she comes back with a plateful of wings, absolutely drowning in buffalo sauce. Those wings were doing the dog paddle in buffalo sauce. My buddy and I, veteran wing eaters that we are, calmly each grabbed one and took a bite, putting the entire wings in our mouths. When that first bite hit my tongue, my entire body went into crisis mode.
Damn, those wings were HOT!
Water started gushing out of my eyes and nose, I was gasping for air, layers of tooth enamel eroded, my stomach was sending SOS signals to my brain while my brain was trying to understand what just happened. Hell, I may have even been in a hallucinatory state. I looked over at my buddy and saw that he was also in gastronomic hell. “These things are ridiculous,” I whispered. He says, as nonchalantly as he could while his tongue was in flames, “they aren’t that bad.”
I knew he was lying, of course. “What do you mean? Why are you crying then?” “I’m not crying because the wings are hot, this place is smokey and making my eyes water.” I would have laughed at my buddy’s blatant, testosterone-fueled lie, but my body wasn’t allowing any display of joy at that moment. I tell him there was no way I was eating another. My buddy, the competitive guy that he is, had to, of course, eat a second so he could say he ate more than me. The first didn’t make the second go down any easier, because the face of my very fair buddy, he of Swedish descent, suddenly looked the color of a thousand suns. He started gulping down the last of his beer.
I quickly motioned the server for two more beers. She smiled and took her sweet time bringing them. Looking back, I am sure she took my buddy’s good-natured teasing as wise-assery (which isn’t a word but should be). She must have gone back to the cook and said, “let’s teach these boys a lesson.” She did. Lesson learned.
We finished our second Bud, paid the bill and left (yeah, we didn’t leave much of a tip). Neither of us said anything about the wings in the car. I don’t think either of us ate chicken wings for a long time after that. I know I didn’t.
My wife and I occasionally go to this pub in our town for dinner where they have wings ranging in heat level from mild to XXX. Without any hint of shame, I get the mild. If I ate a wing with a heat rating of XXX now, I would be in a coma for a week, IV drip in my arm, loved ones gathered around the hospital bed standing vigil for my final moments. The enjoyment of a spicy meal has given way to a more rational acknowledgement of the agony it will bring later. If I went to that local pub with my buddy now (we live in different states), I bet he would get the XXX wings, even if I reminded him of the story I just told. He is that competitive, I am not. Hmmm, wonder how quickly he could book a flight? I might have to text him to see what he is doing Friday night. Could be entertaining.
About the author: Jim LaJoie is a resident of North Carolina, having fled the harsh New England winters about a dozen years ago. He has lived more decades than he cares to admit.