There is a time in every lady's life where she has to ask herself: just how hungry am I? Am I hungry enough to finish off a huge plate of buffalo wings at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon? Is there a chance I might succumb to food coma afterwards? Is it worth it?
If the answer to the first question is 'moderately hungry', but the buffalo wings involved are 20 cents a piece, with a 20-wing minimum (and optional 10-wing increments to follow), then the answers to the rest of the questions = oh yes. Yes indeed.
I didn't intend to put myself into mild food coma this past Saturday, but I also didn't see the impromptu Croxley Ales challenge coming either. After a mid-afternoon mini-spa treat, JC, NM, and I traipsed over to the east village, in search of an outdoor garden where we might consume some drinks; it was, after all, a beautiful day. Heading further and further into the neighborhood, with nothing palatable in sight, JC mentioned that she might be hungry. And that she might want buffalo wings. I had been in the mood for wings for weeks now; without thinking beyond the sheer fact of wings, I agreed. NM reeled back, slightly aghast. To Croxley Ales we went.
So, long story short: we ordered 20 wings, spicy, with extra sauce. They gave us closer to 30. JC and I dug in, gamely and with aplomb. The quality of the wings helped considerably: meaty and crunchy, with a liberal dose of sauce. An hour later, my mouth on fire, JC and I finished off the last two wings on the place. We'd eaten about 15 wings apiece. I couldn't move; I was too full to finish my pint of Belhaven. I had to meet some pals at another bar imminently. I couldn't move. Groggily I made it to the 11th street bar (home to Liverpool supporters, I discovered), where I managed to stay awake and functional enough to drink and carry a conversation. Barely.
Epilogue: I didn't eat again for nearly 24 hours. Would I do it again? You bet.