Beyond The Buffalo or Basket Case
The buffalo chicken scene in San Diego is desolate. I have mentioned this before. It’s disappointing and utterly disheartening to know that this beautiful bounty of land is a barren wasteland when it comes to good hot wings. Sure, you could go to the average chain restaurant to get a quick fix but that will only feed the belly, not the soul. Even if you managed to find the odd local place that sells their own buffalo chicken, I’d wager that you were forced there on a Wednesday in order to avoid paying a premium for them. I didn’t want to wait until Wednesday for wings. I didn’t want any average, reheated fowl. I stand alone amidst the wasteland, craving for a way to break away from such impotent, spice-less scenery. Then, as if from heaven, I was gifted a deep fryer.
Quickly scavenging for ingredients, I set out to lay waste to the opposition and stake my claim for the name of King Buffalo. I decided to fashion a feast of fried chicken strips with a side of French fries because formulating an impromptu menu is much more rewarding when it is all alliterated. I sliced several chicken breasts into meaty, symmetrical portions before dunking them into a thick, egg-based batter. Shortly after, had each of them breaded and laid out evenly on a cooking pan to chill in the fridge for thirty minutes. It takes time to build an empire.
I could hear the four liters of oil popping and hissing in the deep fryer behind me – beckoning my breaded chicken children into its greasy tub. I could no longer deny the oil-slicked Siren call. Sacrificing the strips six at a time, I dropped them slowly into the effervescent vat. The smell was instant and absolutely intoxicating; pairing well with the immense power trip I was on. By the time they were removed, the chicken strips were barely recognizable. They required time to cool and swallow themselves full of supplementary oil. I waited as long as I could, but time was running short. As they became ready, I threw them into a large mixing bowl with a heaping dose of my desired buffalo sauce and a pinch of salt. I tossed them with vigilance; refusing to take my chance at greatness lightly. They were finally ready.
All was good. They were delicious. Beyond delicious, really, but I’ll stop myself in an effort to maintain modesty. Instead, I will say this: After tasting them I wanted to craft a crown out of the discarded chicken bones, sit atop my throne of bubbling oil, and hurl insults towards the lesser buffalo strips that plagued my city. Do you hear me, San Diego? Now I am King Buffalo. Damn the peddlers of lesser buffalo chicken. I hereby deem them inedible – unfit to breach the depths of my gullet. I ventured out into the wasteland and came back licking my fingers. Do you hear me, San Diego? I am King Buffalo.