There was no gut-gorging Wing Bowl in a 1950s because, well, there was no Super Bowl. And we consider it was my father who detected a merits of a heaping image of boiled duck wings, not El Wingador, Big Rig Vogeding, or any of their wing-devouring brethren who gained celebrity by pity their world-class eating talents during WIP.
I can’t remember what we had for cooking final night yet we have extraordinary remember of my expenditure of boiled duck wings during any theatre of my life.
It was a early 1950s and there was pro football on TV. My dad, who taught me to adore boiled duck — check my high propagandize annual underneath “favorite food” — hustled to a hardware store to squeeze a deep-fat fryer for a whooping $2.50 on a Sunday morning.
In a meantime, we ran opposite Main Street to buy several dozen wings and a bucket of solidified French fries during a Acme. Mom ate one or dual wings she’d par-boiled, breaded and afterwards sloshed by a grease. The fryer baked a wings into a particular crispiness.
Dad and we consumed 40 or 50 wings between us that initial day, afterwards used a fryer on a unchanging basis. we remember Mom angry about how formidable it was to clean. Dad was a marvel in a pre-Wing Bowl days. A 145-pounder, he’d have been no compare for Billy Simmons (El Wingador), yet would have been rarely rival in any other forum.
I ate wings usually from afterwards on. When we started operative in Binghamton, N.Y., we dined 5 times a week on 10-cent wings and nickel hard-boiled eggs during Councilman Mike Sejan’s First Ward restaurant.
I ate them via a Southern Tier (Ithaca, Owego, Hamilton), yet never, trust it or not, worked my approach to Buffalo, uncontested home of a duck wing, for a sampling.
Then we changed to South Jersey, where we detected new venues for aged habits, some of which, sadly, are no longer in existence. we even presided over a wing-eating competition for a Gloucester County Times featuring a best wings that hand-picked Gloucester County restaurants have to offer.
I’d make them for residence parties. Highly-seasoned bread crumbs, double-dipped, afterwards also double-dipped in beaten egg batter, deep-fat fried, afterwards baked in a oven until super-crispy. Ummm. You could get a zit only by meditative about it.
My alloy says I’m nuts, and my alloy is correct.
I entered one wing-eating competition during Bogey’s years ago and finished passed final in a 15-minute eat-off even yet horde Wingador ate several of mine.
I’ve attended only one Wing Bowl and won’t try a second. we gathering over in Wingador’s rented limo and was scarcely dejected to genocide in a guts of a aged Spectrum. we was there for Wingador’s fifth pretension (the most, creation him a undisputed king) and a float behind to Gloucester City for a post diversion party, and some-more food.
Wingador was during a Hollywood cafeteria Sunday signing books, yet won’t try for No. 6 this year.
I know I’m removing aged since we can’t eat some-more than 5 or 6 wings anymore.
I’ll skip subsequent Friday’s Wing Bowl.
I’m dieting until Saturday.
Bob Shryock might be reached during email@example.com. Find NJ.com on Facebook.