A Wholly Incomplete Discussion of Buffalo Wings

Having attended the University of Rochester, and having lived in upstate New York, then, for just less than five years, I know a little about chicken wings. On Sunday, I had a pleasant and surprising wing experience I wish to relate. Read on.

FIRST: a brief message to my readers in the upstate New York region.

Hi friends. I'm going to talk about wings for a moment. I need you to basically pretend I'm not. I've spent far too many hours arguing the merits of Anchor Bar v. Duff's (2008); I grew too many gray hairs advocating for On The Rocks over The Distillery. I can't take it. I know you all have an opinion; the good Lord knows I do too. But all I wish to do here is mention and extoll the virtues of the wings I've discovered at one particularly place in DC. There is in the text hereafter no implication whatsoever that these wings are in any way better than Nathaniel's or Mark's or any of the other wonderful options available in the Upstate. Thanks!

Now that's out of the way, I will provide context. On Saturday night, I was faced with an extremely concerning situation: I had yet to find an acceptable location to watch the Patriots' home opener the following day. The food wasn't really a concern; I had brunch plans with RLK, JB, and Suburban Sweetheart (@Ulah Bistro, a staple in my brunch rotation). Having food was a plus, however; we ARE talking about a three-hour football game, but in finding a sports bar, the keys were a) must be showing the game, b) must be showing the game WITH volume, c) reasonably close to U street so I wouldn't miss kick-off, and d) must not be a Colts bar (as in a place where Colts fans assemble. Oy.)

I made a series of calls and did my research through Yelp and elsewhere, and settled on Buffalo Billiards. I'd been before, so I knew the venue was pretty huge with plenty of TVs; it didn't seem that it would be overrun with fans of another team; and I'd had a decent time in the past, so I figured, what the hell.

GREAT DECISION. Though the volume for my game was lower than I would have wished (too many others being played concurrently), the beer was cheap, the Pats won, I made friends (Go 'Skins!) and, as it turned out, the chicken wings were EXCELLENT.

Let me back up. Chicken wings aren't a staple in my diet -- I would die of cholesterol poisoning. They are a treat, like a cigar or a scotch, and as such, I treat them similarly -- as an experience. I'm not being over the top; I'm serious. Wings make me think of football. They bring me back to the best wings I've ever had, and the people I shared them with. Good wings remind me of half-priced appetizer nights with my best friends in college, of visiting Rochester, of a perfect Patriots season (16-0-0!).

For all this to happen, for a wave of nostalgia and contentment to crest and break and wash over and through me, a certain threshold of quality needs to be attained in my wing. It needs to be BIG; it needs to be tender and juicy. Wings need to have sharp, spicy, Buffalo sauce-flavor throughout, not solely on the exterior. They shouldn't have crusty skin and the sauce shouldn't be syrupy. A lot can go wrong in a wing -- and nothing did with the wings at Buffalo Billiards. They were solid, respectable, tasty, and cheap (10 wings for $5.50/20 for $9/30 for $12.50).

I personally believe that solid, respectable, tasty, and cheap are about the best accolades possible for a wing outside upstate New York, so Buffalo Billiards: Hungry Sam Salutes You.

The one picture I could take before my wings were...unphotographable:

Crab Cakes: A Quest Ended before it Began

Today I am going to Annapolis, driving deep into uncharted Mary-land to see what's up in what I've heard is a pretty cool place.

Under any, ANY, other circumstances, I would during this trip stop at various locations, taste-testing crab cakes, looking for the ultimate in near-DC crab cake perfection.

Too bad I found it already. That is to say, several weeks ago, and then again last night, I was the fortunate recipient, one of a Chosen Few, to enjoy crab cakes the likes of which my poor New England imagination could not quite grasp. They were just one dish of several -- but clearly the brazen highlight -- of the meal so graciously served to me aboard the U.S.S. Sequoia, the erstwhile Presidential yacht, by its President and owner, Gary Silversmith. And if the notion of a cruise aboard a floating, sailing Presidential historical landmark doesn't excite you as it does me (and it does!), these crab cakes should.

But allow me to be precise: there is nothing cake-y about these treats -- in fact, the restaurant from whence they come, Jerry's Seafood in Bowie, MD, calls them "crab bombs." The ingredients, if I'm not mistaken, are: Epic lumps of crab meat, butter, mayo and Old Bay seasoning. I could be wrong, but I'm not. The bombs fall to pieces as you take fork to them (it took a couple tries to get one that looked fully cohesive -- attempts that constituted real hardship, to be sure). The meat is almost creamy, so tender and smooth as to melt in your mouth, with the requisite and exceptional kick provided by the traditional Old Bay (or homegrown equivalent).

These are just TOO GOOD. It's as though the Patriots had won the Super Bowl in 2007 in addition to winning every other game that season -- I would have needed to just stop watching football, because, let's face it: nothing else could possibly compare.

Fortunately for my exploration of Mid-Atlantic cuisine, I have a stronger heart and a firmer will when it comes to crab cakes. We're going to MD. I'll try not to compare everything I eat to crab bombs -- I'll try.

Interlude: Lobster, and Make Mine a Moxie

Why yes, that is the best-looking lobster roll ever. Good eye, good eye. Since you asked, I'll also tell you it is the best-tasting lobster roll I've ever had. Here's another picture (please excuse the bizarre lighting):

Now, I won't pretend to have had them all, but as a Mainer born and bred, weaned on claw meat and tested on hard-shells, I know a thing or two about a good lobster roll. I'm sure there are many opinions; apparently the oldest form is lumps of meat on a toasted hotdog bun with melted butter and maybe some lettuce.

As you can see, I think we have flexibility, but the guiding principle is simple: the more meat and the bigger the chunks, the better. See, some places (never in Maine; there'd be a lynch mob of tourist regulars) attempt to give you something resembling a lobster puree in mayo on some bread. This is an abomination.

What my family has found in Anania's Variety Store lobster rolls is close to perfection. They're enormous; for the price of one beer in D.C. you'll get a whole lobster's worth of meat, barely chopped, with just a touch of mayo and a twist of lemon -- as close to pure, unadulterated lobster as I think I can handle (this is actually a small!). I love the addition of tomato (mostly for texture), the fresh sub bun, and salt and pepper, too. On top of that, Anania's adds the truly sweet meat that is a bit harder to find for the unschooled: the leg meat on the interior of the body and inside the arms. The pieces are smaller, but the flavor is bounds more intense than that found in the tail or claw. Far and away the best all-purpose lobster roll I've ever had. The chips are kettle cooked sea salt and cracked pepper, sharp and spicy.

Now for the drink: Moxie. Moxie is my favorite soda. It is a type of root beer, one made from the gentian root, and America's oldest, dating from 1884. Back then, it was marketed thusly:

Moxie and has proved itself to be the only harmless nerve food known that can recover brain and nervous exhaustion; loss of manhood, imbecility, and helplessness. It has recovered paralysis, softening of the brain, locomotor ataxia, and insanity when caused by nervous exhaustion. It gives a durable solid strength, makes you eat voraciously; takes away the tired, sleepy, listless feeling like magic, removes fatigue from mental and physical overwork at once, will not interfere with action of vegetable medicines.

As I seek to avoid "loss of manhood, imbecility, and helplessness" while simultaneously encouraging voracious eating, this is clearly the dirnk for me. While found now primarily in Maine and a few other locales in New England, it was once an extremely popular national beverage, touted as "Magic" by spokesmen such as Ted Williams. Some find it too bitter, but they're wrong. Trust Hungry Sam on this one.

Next time, I'll ACTUALLY finish my rundown of the best meals of the last month (which included this, but this one really deserve its own post).

A Mad-Cap Catch Up! (Part I)

Well, for better or worse (mostly better; good company and warm weather have been the primary culprits) it has been a tad longer 'twixt posts than you, my legions of loyal readers, might have hoped. To get back up to speed, I will put up a two-part post running headlong through some of the most delicious and interesting dishes Hungry Sam has had the good fortune to purchase, craft, or stumble across in the time since we were together.

Circa Bistro Steak Frites at Circa at Dupont, Connecticut and Q St NW

I confess, I don't frequently eat steak. I am a carnivore, and often pretend to be a dinosaur as I tear into a turkey leg or chicken breast. However, I do generally try to limit the amount of beef in my diet. The reasons are several and of shifting priority, but between health, moral, and budgetary concerns, maybe I'll just say that steak is a treat.

A treat for when my parents are in town, as they were at the end of April. We went to Circa at Dupont, which though noisy, crowded, and employing a truly awful DJ or whatever, had filled their menu with a stupendous and wondrous array of options. I opted for a steak slathered in a black-pepper reduction (fresh-ground pepper in red wine simmered to thicken and sweeten), and in the true glory of a perfect just-past-rare steak, it seized every taste bud, the flavor seeming to curl little flavor-tendrils over and through my entire mouth. (The fries were meh.)

As always occurs at family dinners, we all tried each other's food. Literally everything was excellent; JHK's Greek pizza, my Mom's crimini mushroom ravioli and my little brother's cheese platter were particularly worth recording.

Mekhleme (Iraqi beef hash) at Busboys and Poets, 14th and V NW

Ok, so the Mekhleme wasn't anything to make me dance and sing. It's not that I have a multitude of Iraqi breakfast dishes with which to compare it; the hash was just a little blander than I'm used to for ground meat, tomato-based recipes. However, it was reasonably well executed and the poached eggs (enormous in the picture, I know) were excellent. I note this, because I CANNOT, for the life of me, figure out how to correctly and handily poach eggs without some sort of as-seen-on-TV tool. It's something with swirling boiling water...whatever.

Also, let's face it. Busboys and Poets is friggin' AWESOME. The decor is superb, the bookshop is cool (I almost finished a graphic novelization of the autobiography of Malcolm X after the meal), we didn't have to wait a moment as the U St location is enormous, and literally every other thing I ate then or since (I've returned thrice) is superb and well-above par. Definitely food to make Hungry Sam sing and dance. I've a bunch of pics of other dishes here, but I want to highlight one in particular: the Sweet Fuji Apple and Gorgonzola with Fig Spread on Walnut Raisin Bread.

I know. WOAH.

This, my friends, this, is the place to be. Though a tad sweet for my breakfasting tastes, the sharp tang of the creamy gorgonzola with the sweet crunch of the fujis paired impeccably with the wonderful texture of the sweet, dense bread. Also, this is a wicked good picture:

God. I am salivating just looking at it. Visit me and one will be yours.

Tower of Ironman Pale Ale at Pratt Street Ale House, Baltimore

I have searched, to no avail, for a Gritty McDuff's-style beer pub which sells primarily its own brews and wide selection of them. We found one, but it took us travelling northaways to Baltimore. Here, before the first Red Sox vs. Orioles game of the season:

It's called a tower. We got a total of 6 pints out of it. It was very good, strong beer. I will return here, to this wondrous place, on Sunday (the day after my birthday WOO!) when the Sox again face the orange-birds, or whatever.

Well, dear friends, once more into the breach of food frivolity we venture. Part the second of this update to arrive shortly and forthwith.

Blessed be Brunch

I will be brief. The exceptionally talented blogger Suburban Sweetheart, my coworker and friend, loves breakfast potatoes. She adores them. They are her everything, in a Barry White sort of way. She ALWAYS gets them with any meal at which they are available, and has only the highest and most discriminating breakfast potato tastes and standards. And her Ideal Potato, in a Platonic sense, is the brunch buffet breakfast potato at the Marriott Crystal Something Hotel.

When she speaks of these potatoes, her head cocks slightly up and to the left. Her whole body tenses slightly, as though she is straining toward the image in her mind's eye. Her brow lifts and her eyes widen and become unfocused, as though directed inward with a Buddha-like concentration. I think she even tears up. She really, really likes these potatoes.

Being Hungry Sam, I've understood her passion in a general sense. But this last weekend, brunching after a hard morning of tikkun olam-ing, I had the glorious opportunity to taste the object of SS's long-unrequited desires. I had the Potatoes.

Please, please, allow me to be more precise. I had the Brunch. I OWNED the Brunch. WE owned the brunch. In the 17 minutes my friends and I had before the buffet closed, we ate nearly every bit of food at the buffet. I personally ate NINE POUNDS of food. See?

That plate is my first of 3. Plus there are more out of frame. And I think I ate a little off my friends' plates, hence my ridiculous expression, which is meant to communicate victual-related victory. Altogether, we enjoyed plate-cracking loads of:

• scrambled eggs
• The POTATOES (2 varieties, both cheesy and non)
• strawberries
• melons
• blackberries
• omelets
• chicken sausages
• pineapple
• waffles
• blintzes
• probably other things, but I forget.

The meal is like a dream; I almost don't believe it happened. So much food, so fast, and just so damn good (which is obviously important; everything was impeccably prepared). The potatoes were everything I'd hoped, everything I'd dreamed, and almost as satisfying as eating them was seeing Suburban Sweetheart doing so herself. This brunch, these potatoes are enough to make me willing to return to the high-rise hell that is Crystal City. And that's saying something.

PS: I'm pretty sure I can make said ridiculously stupendously mouth-wateringly superb potatoes with some minor variations on my recipe.

The Categorical Imperatives of Salad

I generally feel a little lame ordering a salad at restaurants -- after all, one of the reasons to eat out is to benefit from the wisdom and verve of a real chef. Salads are often the menu items which involve the least skill or forethought, and so I compensate by ordering Cobb salads, stacked with bacon, chicken, egg, etc. Somehow, it helps.

Photo: Flickr CC/Nemo's great uncle

But tonight, as I chowed down a Cobb at Trio on 17^th and Q NW (Washington, DC), this flexibility as to what constitutes a salad ate at me even as I ate at it (HUMOR!). So what IS a salad? What makes a salad a salad and not something else? What are the necessary conditions of salad-ness?

After much thought and some debate with Liz, I contend that four key factors lie at the firmament of any salad:

1. A salad is a stand-alone food – it does not inherently require a complementary food outside itself;
2. A salad is composed of a semi-random mixture or “tossing” of multiple distinct ingredients, each of which exists as a legitimate food unto itself;
3. The ingredients of a salad are themselves fully cooked or prepared prior to inclusion into the salad;
4. A salad must have a dressing, sauce, or relish which complements and connects disparate ingredients.

NOTE: The above are all, of course, reliant upon the general intent of the salad creator and each can be perverted for the creation of pseudo-salads, such as fruit salad which (with few exceptions) has no unifying dressing.

These attributes, I feel, constitute a sort of set of Kantian categorical imperatives; properties necessary to the nature of the proposition (in this case, a salad). They exclude some related foods, such as mixed nuts, dips and stews while effectively including salads ranging from traditional vegetable salads (leafy-greens-based or otherwise) to chicken, potato, pasta, tuna, and even Waldorf salads.

The key, however, as mentioned above, is intent. What makes a salad a dish and not just a pile of random foods is that a Creator-figure (e.g. chef) intentionally chose the elements and combined them in a pleasing way. Whether working from a recipe or improvising on a theme, human creative energy is a necessary condition for a true salad.

I know that this and other descriptors are controversial, and some people seek to modify salads in such a way that they cease to be salads. One common example of this is the situation in which people take a perfectly well-designed, intentional salad and ask that it be served without dressing. These are no longer salads; they are crimes against salads – aberrations of the lowest sort. This denies the plan of the Salad Creators and the salad's intended deliciousness.

As a final note, I'll add that the dressing factor (Key Factor Four) was a tough call. Traditional fruit salad is considered by many a salad and excluding it was no easy decision. But I feel strongly that fruit salad, while delicious, is far more reliant upon the inherent tastiness of the fruit than upon the techniques, talents, and recipes of the chef.

Oh, and the Cobb at Trio was pretty good.