Austin is many things to many people. And whether you believe it to be an exciting town full of possibilities or a chamber pot filled with patchouli and unwashed hippies, everyone seems to agree we have some pretty good places to eat. The city is awash in aioli, racked with ribs, and glazed in ganache. For heaven’s sake, it’s the town that gave me my first taste of foie gras. And if you haven’t had it, imagine the logical conclusion of butter and bacon- where butter is an ignored housewife and bacon is home on shore leave after a long deployment. It is because of this bounty, I sometimes feel ashamed, or at least ungrateful, when the baser elements of Austin’s menu makeup my periodic table.
With this admission, I recently found myself taking advantage of Wing Tuesday at one of the chain restaurants in town. Alone with my thoughts and man’s instinctual need for hot wings, I eagerly began to devour my order. Now, if you ask me, wing places should only be allowed to serve wings. This, or have a special room where people who aren’t eating wings are not allowed. This would be the male equivalent to those “women only” rooms at fitness centers. It would be a place where wing-eaters can be themselves without the judging eyes of someone nibbling on a wrap. Without this refuge, I had what many addicts refer to as “a moment of clarity” when I was slathered in barbecue sauce, looked up, and saw a pretty woman, eating a Cesar salad, and looking at me in horror.
After hurriedly wiping the sauce/clown makeup off my face, I thought, “It’s a Goddamn wings place, lady!” Although, to her, it must have been like turning on your headlights on a dark country road and interrupting some wild-eyed predator in mid-possum. I shook this image from my mind and thought the “Whatever” of a recalcitrant teenager that doesn’t have a better retort. Besides, I had other things on my mind. While I was dealing with Judgy McSalad, I had literally inhaled a small piece of chicken. Now, I assure you, it was far more innocent than the picture I must have just painted. However, the fact of the matter was that I took a deep breath and a miniscule piece of chicken was sucked down.
It’s truly remarkable how such a minute piece of chicken, when inhaled, feels like a 1964 Buick Sport Wagon in your throat. As I grabbed for my water, my mind actually debated if someone could drown from inhaling chicken and the probability of that person being me. It came back with “Maybe” and “100%…” When the cold water rushed down my gullet, it seemed to immediately do the trick. My heart slowed, and it was like the moment after an ice cream headache vanishes. You can’t believe that something that caused you such consternation just a moment ago was gone without a trace.
This is why wings are best eaten alone or, at the very least, in the company of people you’ve heard fart. You can’t just go ordering them willy-nilly. In fact, they should be avoided at any number of situations from first dates to state dinners. Unless you’re dating a wolverine or hammering out a treaty with “Sven the Dismemberer,” you’ll be at a great disadvantage. I mean, if Reagan had wings during the START negotiations, it would have most likely invited a Russian invasion.
By the time things had settled down a bit at lunch, I began working on my smart phone. “Working” is what I call looking very busy and important to the world while I play a game of Scrabble against the computer. While I did this, it began to occur to me just how difficult it was to eat wings with one hand while your other typed out the word “leper.” So much so, I eventually had to put the phone down altogether. I realized just how time-consuming it must be for a one-armed man to eat hot wings. I’m not kidding. I value these moments of perspective. Often, they’re wasted on my myopia, but not this time. And no prosthesis is going to be much help either- not with slippery hot wings. I imagine if The Fugitive’s wife’s assailant had wings for dinner, she’d still be alive today. Anyway, it’s an outrage. They should amend the Americans With Disabilities Act to force wing places to exclusively give drumsticks to one-armed patrons.
Of course, there are other foods that I find difficult with the use of both arms. Crab is a great example of this. Now, I love crab the way Paula Dean loves saturated fat. However, I rarely order it. I’ve even been known to ask waiters about the crab, let out a dreamy moan of pleasure, and say, “That sounds great… I’ll take the Grouper.” It’s because it’s too damn hard to eat. It’s particularly frustrating when you look at the table next to you and a small, Vietnamese lady expertly pulls out about a pound-and-a-half of crab meat while talking about her window treatments. Despite it’s allure, I just don’t have the patience for it. I once read that morality was a sustainable system of determination between two competing desires. In these cases, my Gluttony is squared off against my Sloth in a middle-weight bout of Dante’s deadly sins. Sloth-1. Deadliest Catch-0.
I feel the same way about Crawfish. I love it, but I’ll always eat something light before going to a crawfish boil. It’s more of an activity than a meal. For any reader who has never eaten crawfish out of its shell, imagine having to solve a side of a Rubick’s cube for a thimbleful of meat. Oh, and that meat may have a turd on it, but somehow, it’s okay. The way I figure it is that crawfish is the perfect diet food. You’re standing up at the table, cracking it open, using your right knee to keep a Labrador’s snout off the table, and consuming about 1/86th of a pound of meat. You’re actually burning more energy than you’re consuming. Science has proven that you get over 97% of your calories at a crawfish boil from drinking a twelve pack of beer. For the uninitiated who thought this would actually be a lunch or a dinner, they throw in whole potatoes with the crawfish. Tell me, outside of Ireland, what other meal do people feverishly eat whole potatoes like apples?
That being said, if you are invited to a crawfish boil, I wholeheartedly encourage you to go. It’s a wonderful experience. You’re outside, there’s music, you’re having fun with your friends, and did I mention the twelve pack? It’s also totally different from the wing situation. First of all, I’ve never seen Cesar salad served at a crawfish boil. And men, while it’s messy, it’s more of an activity. Apparently, that makes you “fun” and not like a honey badger ripping into a squirrel.
Maybe, I should take the same approach to crab. One time, I was at a buffet in Vegas and they had a mountain of crab. It looked as though someone had cut it length-wise on a table saw, and all you had to do was scoop out the delicious meat with a Lilliputian fork. That was it. To me, it was a triumph of American ingenuity unequaled since the moon landing. It was such a beautiful sight, I imagined it being promised to on-the-fence suicide bombers after the 72 virgins didn’t seal the deal. After the initial euphoria, I made sweet love to the northwest face of Mt. Crustacean and spent the next hour regretting it in my hotel room. I guess, certain things are better off being hard to get. And perhaps, if I just learn to enjoy the journey, I’ll wind up enjoying the entire experience more. Then, the next time I catch the judging eye of someone at a wings place, I can just smile back.
