Winging it

Despite the good intentions, I was a bit embarrassed that yesterday was deemed “Bruce Warford Hot Wing Day” at the hotel conference center where I am staying. They didn’t make a banner or announce it over the public address system, but it was common knowledge and I was reminded of the fact throughout the day.

This hotel provides what is called a “CMP” or “complete meeting package.” It includes the meeting room, continental breakfast, morning break, buffet lunch, and an afternoon break with one hot hors d'oeuvres and ice cream all in one package price. I have learned from past visits here that Mondays are usually “Mini-pizza Day,” Tuesdays are “Mini-hot dog Day,” Wednesdays are “Hot Pretzel Day” and Thursday is “Hot Wing Day,” which is by far my favorite. Fridays are good too, with some really tasty and addictive “Jalapeño Poppers.” A word of warning, however, you have to be careful about over indulging on “Jalapeño Popper day.” They are the gift that keeps on giving.

It has become well known among the staff here that I love “Wing Day.” They are among the better hot wings I have ever had in my life, with that perfect combination of crispy exterior, juicy interior and spicy, fully integrated coating. Good hot wings are an art form, with the key being the perfectly timed introduction of freshly deep fried wing to saucy coating. If the wings are not extremely hot when tossed in the hot sauce, then the coating does not become a part of the wing. It is like the coat of chubby kid, and I should know; awkward and ill-fitting, it will not button or zip. It provides no real warmth and is practically pointless.

Wings should be tossed in the hot sauce immediately upon removal from the deep fryer. The heat from the wings basically cook the sauce into the outer layer, creating a flavorful seal around the entire wing. Although some wing aficionado’s might disagree, I believe the perfect wing is not swimming in wing sauce, but a little bit less messy. The flavor flashed through the entire wing, not just dripping off the edges.

I may have given this way too much thought.

When members of the hotel staff learned that I would be here for meetings only through Wednesday of this week, they made a point of saying “but you will miss Wing Day!” I thought it was nice that they remembered how much I enjoyed their wings, but I had to wonder what I had done in the past to make such a strong impression. Did I stand salivating by the refreshment table on Thursdays, wearing a plastic bib and carrying a roll of paper towels, just waiting for the delivery of hot wing nirvana?

Yesterday morning I was greeted by the floor manager with a big smile and a heavily accented “we have a surprise for you Mr. Bruce!” I gave only a half smile back because I have had equal parts glory and disaster when presented with surprises in the past. “Today will be wings!” he said, with the same enthusiasm I have heard Bob Barker announce to contestants that they had won a new car on The Price is Right.

“But it’s not Thursday,” I said, and in my confusion I almost followed up with, “is it?” The concept of Thursday being “Hot Wing Day” was absolute in my mind. Any deviation from the carefully established norm might have devastating consequences.

“We do this for you,” he said, still smiling but beginning to wonder why I was not doing back flips at this point. “You not be here on Thursday…so today is Wing Day!”

I was touched. I thanked him and walked away. It was flattering that they thought of me, but it was strange too. I had to wonder how much I talk about food. I need to find another hobby.

Throughout the day, other staff passed me in the halls and brought up the special “wing day.” By the time they were put out at 2pm, I was almost not in the mood to eat any. Almost.

As usual, they were delicious. I had skipped lunch, as I do most days, but especially on “wing day,” so with my afternoon consumption of wings, celery and carrots (I’ve got to eat some veggies!), I was set for a light dinner and some brain dead television.

Something kept bugging me though, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It was the visual of the round chafing pan piled full of wings. I don’t know how many were there, but quite a few. There were four different stations setup in various locations of the conference center, and they were all identical. Lots of wings. I ate my share, and there were still lots of wings.

It crossed my mind that it took a lot of chickens to make those wings, and then I thought of all the restaurants and hotels in the Rockville, Md area that were probably serving hot wings that day. I considered the DC metro area wing consumption and then the entire United States. That’s a whole lot of wings.

Broadening my thoughts, but sticking with the chicken theme, I wondered how many KFC’s there were in existence (I looked it up...over 11,000), but there are lots of other chicken franchises, like Popeye’s and Bojangles too. Include all the other restaurants that serve Grilled Chicken, Teriyaki Chicken, BBQ Chicken, Chicken Quesadilla’s and Chicken Tenders. That’s a phenomenal amount of poultry.

Turning to my “how did I ever live without you” friend Google, I asked the simple query: How many chickens are killed in the US every day? I knew the answer would be high, but the number kind of shocked me. I checked multiple sources and they all confirmed. Over twenty three million. If that doesn’t shock you, look at it numerically: 23,000,000. That’s one chicken killed for every person in Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia and Alabama…every day.

I sat for a long time and wondered just what I would do with this information. I knew that I would never join PETA. I could never become a vegan. I can’t imagine life without meat. It just tastes too good and I’m too selfish.

Still, I could cut back on my wing consumption. If I could save just one chicken a day (or six, since I usually order a dozen wings at a time), I would be doing my part for our fine feathered friends. It was a good plan and I had every intention of acting on it, until I spoke to a friend about my sudden awakening to the plight of the birds that cluck. She made a rather brilliant, but brutally obvious observation.

Chickens don’t fly. They don’t need wings. With careful surgery and removal, they could continue to live a long and happy life. The genius of this concept gives me new hope to have my wings and feel good too. Maybe if I could establish a new system of wing harvesting which would allow the eventual retirement of wingless chickens to a barnyard in south Florida, I would be truly worthy of a “Bruce Warford Hot Wing Day.” Until then, I’m just a man with a vision.