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Welcome to Haute-N-Ready, in which John Locanthi, Willamette Weekâs trencherman of leisure, tastes the hastily made, modestly priced food of the common man.
The first bite ends in disappointment. It is chicken—fried chicken, even—but where is the burn? There is a hint in the lengthy finish but devouring these six wings and dipping both fries and over-buttered biscuit in the house buffalo sauce wasn't enough to make me sweat. The majority of this meal was spent wondering where Popeye's found these midget wings and how these birds managed to do anything with so little meat on them.
But I can still remember that cough as the acrid smell of the wings wafted up when I opened the box, those first few bites of spicy, vinegary heaven, and that âWhat are you doing to yourself?â look from my parents as I munched away, sweating profusely. Non-spiceheads wonât ever understand this special place, and Popeyeâs Ghost Pepper Wings sure as hell wonât get you there.
WWeek 2015