The LBC Represents the Best Wings

The time has come where I give a real review of a wing joint. I do enjoy ranting about everyday experiences, but I want to make sure I stay on topic at least every few posts. I feel that by now you all know what I like in a wing experience. Everything I have talked about in previous posts will be involved in the final rating of an establishment. The rating will be based on a 5 scale, 5 being the best.

Well, I’m not going to draw this out. I am going to tell you the best place in the LA area for wings so we have something to rate others against. This is a bar/restaurant in Long Beach called E.J. Malloy’s. There are two E.J. Malloy’s. One is on Atlantic a couple blocks north of Carson, and the other is on Broadway and Redondo. Each place has strengths and weaknesses. The one on Atlantic serves beer and liquor while the Broadway location only serves beer. On the flip side, the one on Broadway has slightly better wings than the one on Atlantic. In no way are the wings at the Atlantic location bad In fact, they are better than all other wing places I have visited. It’s just that the wings on Broadway are really good. It would be like the difference between Tango and Cash. Now Tango is cool and classy, but Cash is a bad ass that isn’t afraid to hook up with Tango’s sister. And Cash rocks a sick mullet. Both places are the same except for the overall wing quality/taste. They bring the wings out with ranch, so be sure to ask for bleu cheese if that’s your preference. The good thing is Malloy’s won’t charge you for extra dipping sauces like at others might. Their temperatures are mild, medium, and nuclear. If you like average heat, go with medium. I will say that nuclear is pretty hot. Sometimes it’s hard for me to finish off a pound of nuclear. Now if you have that good wing buddy with you, here’s what you do. They serve them by the pound. 1, 2, and 3 pound portions. Start with one pound of medium, and then do one pound of hot. Now if you guys think you are true bad asses, order their secret item that is not on the menu. Super nuclear. Last time I ordered this the waiter asked twice if I was sure about what I was doing. This heat made my neck sweat and my ears ring. It was pretty intense. You can’t even smell them because the nostril sting is too intense. When you are done with the wings, there is a lot of thick sauce left on your fingers, so you definitely feel satisfied. The washroom doesn’t have anything with sensors and there are lots of televisions with all types of sports.

On a scale of 5 sticky fingers, I would rate this place a 4.25. I can’t give it a 5 because that would be the all time wing joint. But this is definitely the best I have found. So if you ever find yourself in the birthplace of Snoop Dogg, or just want to make a special trip to the LBC, make sure you stop by E.J. Malloy’s. You will be thoroughly pleased that you did.

Bad Karaoke Wings - Part 2

I’m sure all of you have been waiting in angst to hear what I consider a bad karaoke wing place. Well, here you go. Dodger Stadium. I know what you’re thinking; there are no wings at Dodger Stadium. Well, where the peasants sit, they don’t serve wings. But down in the Dugout Club, where the ballers sit, they serve them. When I first sat in this area it was awesome. I was sitting a couple rows behind Tommy LaSorda and had a Blue Moon in my hand, which they don’t serve in the rest of the park. There is plenty of eye candy, the food is free, and they take your order in the stands and bring the food out to you. On hot days they have freezers full of popsicles and ice cream sandwiches. Inside they have everything from prime rib to hot dogs. They have it all. So obviously, I was blinded by the awesomeness of the Dugout Club. What I didn’t realize is that the wings were not that good. By about the third or fourth time I sat in this section, I finally realized the wings were shit. They are listed on the menu as Spicy Hot Wings. They were neither spicy nor hot. They had more of a bbq like taste to them. When I was finished eating there wasn’t even any wing residue that needed to be washed off. Once I got over the “stage presence” of Dodger Stadium, I realized that these wings were no good. Sure, they’re a good compliment when you’re sitting out in the sun, drinking a beer, and watching ManRam’s lazy ass walk to the batter’s box. But these wings aren’t even as good as Buffalo Wild Wings. And you know how I feel about that establishment.

Now I’m sure you all are wondering when I am actually going to review a place that has good wings. I will do that in the next couple of posts when I broach a few subjects that are dear to my heart. Just to give you a little taste of what’s to come, I will be talking about whether or not it’s appropriate to wear sweats in public, my views on the airport ride, and what I think of people who refer to their pet as a “rescue.” And yes, all of these subjects will be related to wings.

Bad Karaoke Wings - Part 1

So there is a bar in downtown LA called Bar 107. I think it’s the greatest bar ever. Remember how awesome you thought the bar in Coyote Ugly was when the movie first came out? That’s how awesome I think this place is. They have a great drink selection, great bartenders, great music, and most of all, a Wednesday night Gong Show karaoke. To top it all off, they have a judging panel that rivals the American Idol panel.

There are some great performances, but also some bad ones. If you are lucky enough to get through the whole song, then you will be judged by the panel and make your way to the finals at the end of the night. The alternative is sucking and getting gonged before the song is over. At that point people like to point and laugh as Bong Jovi, the show’s MC, grabs the microphone out of your hand and you walk back to your bar stool in shame. This has happened to me twice. Oh, you ask how many times I’ve made it through to be judged. 0. Yes folks, 0. All this time I thought I was a great karaoke singer. Well, I was wrong.

Now usually when I head to a bar that I know will have karaoke I have three songs in mind. Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long,” and Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time.” When I walk into the bar I immediately know which song I’m singing. If it’s an all white crowd, Diamond for sure. If it’s mostly black, which tends to be the case at the Culver City dives that I like to attend, I go with Eddie Murphy. And if it’s a mix crowd, then I feel that Lionel Richie usually does the trick. After all, he has a white daughter, so you get some love from both sides. Now, when I perform these songs I kick ass. I have great stage presence and like to get the crowd involved. If the microphone is wireless, I’m getting out there and singing with every ugly chick in the bar, because that’s what the crowd loves. By the time I’m done with the song, people are giving me hi-fives and cheering. I feel like a bad ass. This did not happen at Bar 107. You know why? No wireless microphones and they have people who are not only judging stage presence, but also your voice. My voice sucks, but my ability to work the crowd helped me in the past. This fact is why I can relate some wing joints to a karaoke singer.

There are some wing places that have bad wings but an awesome atmosphere. They have every sport on TV, the waitresses are hot, and the beer is cheap. There are usually a lot of people there which adds to the camaraderie aspect of eating wings. So you leave this place feeling pretty cool. You think this place is good enough to take your buddies to and then something happens. You make the mistake of inviting a gay buddy along with the guys. Now you get there, and all of your straight buddies love the place. Your fat friend is getting tons of attention from the waitress with the big tits and obviously he thinks it’s because of his great personality, and not because she works for tips. Your jock buddy loves the fact that he can watch all the morning football games in one place. And your party buddy loves that there are $5 pitchers. But you made the mistake of inviting the one guy who sees this place for what it really is. That, my friend, is a bad karaoke singer with great stage presence. He’s there to eat wings, not watch sports and get brushed up on by fake titty white women. Unfortunately, your gay buddy can’t keep his mouth shut and has to burst your bubble. He tells you about how bad the wings are and opens your eyes to the place. But lucky for you, you’re straight and don’t give a shit about the wings and are happy to return to this crappy wing establishment.

When I think of this idea, there is one place that comes to mind. One place that advertises “Spicy Hot Wings” and doesn’t deliver, but you are blinded by the atmosphere. This post is getting a little lengthy, so I will reveal this place in the next post.

Someone Challenged My Winghood - Part 2

So I did something I never thought I would do. I ordered bleu cheese with my wings. I’m not even sure if it’s because I don’t like it, but I think I just didn’t give it a chance. My friend was right; bleu cheese complements the wing, whereas with ranch you taste too much dressing and not enough wing. The one area where my friend was wrong is the claim that ranch “is an abortion to wings.” I think that ranch is perfectly fine to dip your wing in. Sure, it may have not been the original choice when the wing recipe was invented, but I think it is a great alternative. People shouldn’t have to feel ashamed to be into ranch instead of bleu cheese. It’s the same way that some people like big chubby wings, and some like small petite wings. Some like a hotter, more spicy wing, and some like a dull boring wing. Being able to make your own decision without fear of persecution is the beauty of living in America. If I didn’t believe in that, I would just move to Canada where you don’t have the choice of ordering a hamburger without mayonnaise, or the choice of ordering fries without gravy. That’s why I am pro choice. If you want to order a dip that “is an abortion to wings,” that’s fine with me. Abort the shit out of those wings. Just don’t preach to me that one dressing should not be allowed near a wing. If that’s the case, just move to Canada and get out of the land of the free.

I’m Eric Dutton, and I’m pro choice.

(this blog in no way is associated with the views of Canadian governments)

Someone Challenged My Winghood - Part 1

So the other day I was worried because someone had questioned my winghood. This so called friend said,

I went to school inupstate NY

And consider ranch dressing an abortion to wings

Now obviously the first thing that came to mind was how many grammatical errors are in this email. I’m not trying to say that my grammar is amazing, but that is written pretty badly. Then I wondered if maybe he wrote this on his cell phone, but I didn’t noticed one of those annoying signatures that said “sent from (blank) phone,” or “sent using the Sprint network.” But maybe he changed his phone settings so it doesn’t leave the automatic signature because one time in the past he responded to his boss’ email with his blackberry while on the golf course. Then his boss thinks it’s odd that he didn’t use his computer when he is supposed to be at his desk, so his boss takes it upon himself to check his desk and make sure he didn’t leave work early. On his way to his desk he runs into Tim in accounting, and Tim rats you out for taking off early because you had a 2:30 twilight tee time at Trump International. Now, I’m out of a job and just dropped $150 on a round of golf all because Tim in accounting doesn’t know how to help a brother out and tell a white lie. Thanks Tim. Not saying that this scenario has happened to anyone, but let’s just assume that this friend who sent the email was using his smart phone and no longer has the automatic signature.

The second thing that came to mind is how cocky this friend is. He assumes that he is part of an elitist society that governs the way hot wings should be eaten because he went to school in upstate New York. This is based on the idea that Hot Wings originated in upstate New York. But I’ve lived in California for 5 years, and that doesn’t mean I gained the ability to drive like an asshole.

Then I started to think about it. Maybe if you live in upstate New York for a few years you do become the Kelly Slater of hot wing connoisseurship and can make statements like, “ranch is an abortion to wings.” I definitely have gained the ability to drive like an asshole in the five years I have lived in California. If he is part of this society of champions, then I feel ashamed because I eat my wings with ranch. Has my whole experience with hot wings been tainted because I have been eating my wings with ranch? Is bleu cheese the only acceptable dressing to accompany the hot wing? Was I missing out on some sexual explosion in my mouth that is created when the hot wing, bleu cheese, and taste buds connect for the first time? I replied to my friend’s email and asked him what he bases this theory on. He said,

You shouldn’t be allowed near a wing with ranch dressing.

The formulas was developed and perfected with blue cheese.  Ranch dressing is too earthy and too mild to balance out the spice of a wing…and too drippy..you need a firm blue cheese to really adhere to the wing…it’s a dip..Not a sauce.

Once again, let’s assume this was sent from his smart phone and excuse the grammatical errors. When you read this statement, it kind of makes sense. I especially like how he says “ranch dressing is too earthy.” Not really sure what that is supposed to mean. I don’t know, maybe it’s something that people from Long Island say. Or maybe I’m just not as cultured as he is.

Needless to say, he makes a good point. So I’ve decided to make a trip to Big Wangs, in downtown LA, and test this theory. I am picking Big Wangs because it has a good wing, and I need a constant to test against both ranch and blue cheese. Also, it’s only a few blocks from my place. Tonight I will take meticulous notes of the new experience and come up with a conclusion of my own. Expect part two of this blog tomorrow.

The Breakup Dump

Going through life, you experience lots of ups and downs. Some of the ups may be losing your virginity, your first car, graduating college (or high school for you underachievers out there), or getting married. Some of the downs may be losing your virginity to a fat chick, crashing your first car, getting kicked out of college (or high school for the severe underachievers out there), or a breaking up with someone when you thought things were great. After a break up, some might say, “you just need time.” Others might compare it to ripping off a band aid, and that it will just hurt for a short time. I like to compare it to a hot wing experience (don’t tell me you’re surprised).

It’s like this. You spend a long time searching for the perfect hot wing. See, many places have good hot wings, but there is always something about them that turns you off. Some places only serving celery and not carrots. One place annoys the crap out of you because of what they insist to have playing on the TV at all hours of the day. Some people, I mean places, might have a funky washroom smell and you can’t help but think about all of the people who have got all up in the inside of that stall. After a while, you think that you have tried all the wing joints and you’re never going to find your true match.

Then one day, it happens. You find a place that looks great, is warm and inviting and makes you want to…stay a while. You think it couldn’t get any better and you notice a sign that lets you order all drummettes or all wingettes for only a dollar extra. The washroom is spotless and smells great like it has never been touched. You are done with your meal but don’t want to leave and you find yourself always wanting to come back. But most importantly, you find a great hot wing.

So you keep this relationship going for a while, thinking it can only get better. Then one day, there’s a change in management. You don’t know why this could happen because things seem to have been going so well. The restaurant decides to start making new decisions. All of a sudden the washrooms go to shit, no more happy hour deals, and they insist on playing replays of World Cup matches. You think it couldn’t get any worse and then it gets worse. Their recipe has changed. The wings are dry and taste like you took a KFC wing and dumped Tabasco all over it. They cheap out on the ranch and it’s all runny. They decided to change to those crappy wings that actually look like wings, like they have at Hooters. Then it hits you. You need to break up with this bitch, I mean restaurant.

You decide the best thing to do is to make a clean break, because that’s what all your friends have told you in the past. You don’t even want to make eye contact with the person giving you the bill. You decide to pay cash because you don’t want to wait around to sign the credit card slip. You bolt out the door and make your way to the car and all of a sudden an instant sigh of relief. You laugh because for a minute you thought you were ready for a long term relationship when in actuality all you wanted was a quick fling. You start driving home and Hall and Oates, “You Make My Dreams,” comes on and you feel as happy as Richard Simmons. Because lets face it, that’s the happiest fuckin’ song in the world.

You get home and immediately start looking online to see places that you haven’t tried yet, or places you have been to that weren’t that good, but you just want to get a quick taste and get out. You know, a one time thing. You finally find a place and decide that you are going to venture out for a post breakup quickie. And then it happens. You’re stomach starts rumbling and you can’t get her out of your mind. Then it goes away and you think you’re alright to go out and meet another place. Then it starts rumbling again and you feel nauseated. You try and psych yourself out and tell yourself that you are better off. Then it happens, you run to the shitter and let go the most painful thing of your life. As you’re sitting there crying, from the heat of course because you’re too much of a man to cry over a past relationship, you start thinking that you were right when you first broke things off. That if she, I mean the new recipe, can make you feel this way, that you shouldn’t be together. Then by mid week you find that you’re over her. The rest of your week is great and by the time next Friday rolls around, you decide to get yourself out there and find another place.

So after reading that analogy that flowed as well as a post menopausal period, you’re probably wondering what the moral of the story is. Well here it is, lots of relationships are going to end in ways that make you feel so bad that you end up shitting fire, and there will be many more that do the same thing. The idea is to get yourself back out there. But when the time comes and your stomach starts rumbling, shit at your buddies place next door so you don’t stink up your own apartment.

Hot Wing Cult

Anyone who is a wing lover knows that it is an experience, from the time you leave your house to when you visit the porcelain office after consumption. This is the reason that I compare eating wings to being in a cult. When you are a true wing lover, you are very meticulous when it comes to the details. The smallest thing can steer you away from a repeat visit, like not serving beer. In the same way, the smallest thing can also keep you coming back, like an option to have only drummetes or wings for an extra dollar.

The wing experience starts the moment you decide to find the perfect friend to take on a man date. Yes, a man date. Because that’s what it is, two people who enjoy each other’s company and enjoy doing the same thing; getting together to share an experience. And no, there’s nothing gay about that. In my mind dates are innocent, and many dates don’t even end the night in the bone yard, so I see no reason why two friends cannot have a man date. Guys have a weird hang up about things being “gay.” Why are girl’s friends referred to as girlfriends, but guys don’t refer to their friends as boyfriends?

OK, maybe I went a little too far with that one, because that does sound exxxtremely gay. But I feel that man date is a perfectly good term. It is very important to figure out who to essentially ask out. The two main things for picking someone for this particular man date are to get someone who enjoys the same heat index, and someone who eats and drinks the same amount.

Once you have found the perfect friend for your man date, it’s off to the wing joint. Living in LA, it’s all about picking the best location to destroy a plate of wings. For me, parking is a big factor when deciding where to go. If you don’t have a parking lot, there needs to be ample street parking. Once I have circled the block more than twice to find parking, I usually get angry and question if I really want to eat wings. This is why you think ahead and get a man date so you can’t simply jump ship and abandon all plans to get fat.

After I am done complaining to my date about the parking situation and we make our way inside, it is important to find good seating. Now, when I go out for wings, I’m gong to a bar. So in my case, the best place to sit is at the bar, in front of a television that is NOT showing a sport that is popular over seas. If there are no games on, I usually ask the bartender to put on FUEL TV. That channel is always showing a ridiculous exxxtreme sport. (Yes, I spell extreme with three X’s…because that is just how exxxtreme I am)

Now it’s time to order that first beer and first batch of wings. It’s always good to start with a pound of wings at nominal heat to get warmed up. At most places, this is the heat index either one or two below the hottest choice. After we devour the first pound, I like to step it up a notch and order the next heat index. Typically anything with a name like nuclear or atomic will work. This is when picking a man date who enjoys the same heat index becomes beneficial. If you pick someone who prefers mild wings, and you order the nuclear, he won’t be able to relate when you look at him and say, “Fuck, these wings are hot. My neck is starting to sweat.”

After you have had a couple more beers, and finished discussing the heat, how sticky the sauce was, how much the smell stung your nostrils, and various other aspects of the experience, it’s time for clean up. Many people get on my case because I prefer to not lick my fingers, or use a napkin while I eat my wings. Instead, I let them get gunked up and make my way to the washroom. And just to clear something up, I have never seen a bath in a bar, but there is always a sink. So before you leave some smart ass comment asking me what a washroom is, when you sure as hell know what one is, the proper term is washroom, not a bathroom. Restroom is also acceptable. As I was saying, I prefer to make my way to the washroom and clean up. It is always a pleasant surprise when I walk in there and push the soap dispenser, and that heavenly foam soap comes out. I swear that shit is produced by angels sold into slavery to some sweatshop just outside of Barstow. And the reason I know this sweat shop is near Barstow is because that place is hell, and only the devil would be awesome enough to sell Angels into slavery. So after I am done enjoying the soothing foam soap on not only my hands, but also my face, it’s time to dry. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all about hanging up my towel in a hotel room to save the Earth’s resources, and I think that flush less urinals in ballparks are awesome, but please bar and restaurant owners, don’t skimp on the drying utensils found in your public bathroom. I don’t give a shit if I kill three trees with all the paper towels I plan on using, I cannot stand using some shitty blow dryer that would take longer to dry than it would if I made one of those angel slaves blow on my hands themselves. And no, it’s not alright to put a paper towel machine in there, because I get sick of having to wave my hand in front of the shitty sensor, which is usually not working properly, to get three squares of paper towel. If you do decide to go green, spend some money and get the Dyson Air Blade, because that thing is fucking awesome. You stick your hands in, and pull them out while a magical air blade, which sounds pretty awesome, dries them instantly. What’s Dyson gonna come up with next, maybe an invisible condom? Because it seems like he’s the only one to figure out a way to do things bag less.

After I get my shit cleaned, time to square up the bill, and thank god for choosing a man date that eats and drinks the same amount as I do. After I’m on a wing high it’s too hard to figure out who owes what, and is much easier splitting the tab.

Once I’m back at my place, time to make sure I’m ready for what’s going to happen exactly 107 minutes after I finish eating my wings. I swear the wing shit is clock work. I need to make sure that I have ample supply of the toilet paper that the Bears sell. You know, the stuff that is tough enough to not leave toilet paper dingle berries on your ass hole, yet somehow soft enough to sooth the fire that’s coming out of that balloon knot.

As I am writing this on a plane and am about to land, I must abruptly end this blog. But before I do, I revert back to my original thesis, eating wings is like being in a cult. Also, I hate the fact that Stewardess’ think they are more than that, and want to be called Flight Attendants.

O.G.'s Vs. Flavors

There are people who have a crazy assumption that the restaurant, Buffalo Wild Wings, has the best wings ever. These people are retarded and have obviously never been adventurous enough to try something that isn't franchised. These are the same people who think that their city is the greatest when they haven't even ventured past a 30 mile radius from the place they call home. It is my goal to make people aware of this and if they aren't lucky enough to try some of the places I will review on this blog, I hope they at least get out of their shitty shell and try something new in their area.

Before I tell you why Buffalo Wild Wings is not a good wing place, I just have to release some anger that I have towards fans of this restaurant. My friends who are in love with this place call it BW3's. Can someone please leave a comment and tell me if it's only my friends who call it BW3's, or is it everyone? Where the fuck do you get the third W from? I have asked people this and their response is, "I don't know, that's just what they call it." FUCK YOU!

Now that I got that out of the way, on to my issues with Buffalo Wild Wings. As far as the establishment goes, it's not that bad, except for some of the douchey fratty people who go there. But let's face it, any sports bar you go to is going to attract some of that crowd, and I don't think that Buffalo Wild Wings attracts any more than normal amount, so I don't want to hate on them for that fact. But I will hate on them for having Golden Tee, which was cool around the same time Britney Spears was hot. Anyway, they have a good selection of beer and they are a clean establishment, which is always key. Nothing I hate more than a place that offers me three different types of light beer, and then when I walk into the bathroom to expel their shitty selection out of my system, I have to smell piss because they rarely mop their floors. The area where Buffalo Wild Wings really slacks, is their wings.

You would think since "wings" is in the fucking name of the establishment, that they would take some time honoring the O.G. wing. For those of you lived a sheltered life and never listened to rap or saw a movie with black people in it, which is kind of hard to imagine, O.G. means Original Gangster. The hot wing is the O.G. wing. If I had to compare the hot wing to a movie character, I would compare it to O-Dog. Buffalo Wild Wings has not perfected the gangsterness of the hot wing because they have spent too much time coming up with flavors in order to please all of the Sally's out there who do not like hot wings. A wise man once told me that loving hot wings is like being in a cult. It's not for everyone. So please Buffalo Wild Wings, don't lure people into my cult by offering flavors like Parmesan Garlic and Asian Zing. I want O-Dog in my cult, not Tre Styles. If you don't understand that comparison then you need to watch more early 90's movies about life in the ghetto. And I don't want you in my cult either.