Teresa Guido was 300 miles from home with a mission and a carefully devised strategy. At a few minutes past 7 on a windy fall night in Buffalo, N.Y., she strapped on her goggles and stepped onstage with her competition. They sized each other up, the whistle blew, and then in a furious rush, they dunked heads into a kiddie pool filled with blue cheese dressing and frantically bobbed for chicken wings. The National Buffalo Wing Festival was in full effect.
Once a year, tens of thousands of devotees of Buffalo’s namesake delicacy flock from around the country for this 48-hour bacchanal of eating contests, hot sauces and deep-fried chicken wings. This year, three tractor trailers delivered 45 tons of wings to the hungry crowd, to be promptly fried in 11.5 tons of oil. (“Trans fat-free,” the festival proudly proclaims, but who’s worried about heart health at an event like this?) But as much as the National Buffalo Wing Festival is a city’s celebration of the humble food that put it on the culinary map, it’s a living exhibit of the extremes to which people will go to demonstrate their love of their favorite food.
It’s also probably the only national festival that has its roots in a poorly received animated comedy by the Farrelly Brothers. “Osmosis Jones” starred Bill Murray eating his way into an early grave, a man whose ultimate dream was to attend a fictional event called the “Buffalo Wing Festival.” That fiction inspired some very real ideas in Buffalo native Drew Cerza. In hindsight, it seems obvious. Aside from snow, Buffalo is known for two things: eating chicken wings, and losing Super Bowls. It was only a matter of time until someone combined the two into what has since become known as “the Super Bowl of junk food.” Cerza organized the first National Buffalo Wing Festival in 2002, and is now better known to Buffalo residents as simply “The Wing King.”
By any measure, the numbers are staggering. In the festival’s estimation, since 2002 over 500,000 attendees have consumed over 2.5 million wings (something like 137 tons). Weddings have taken place there. The de rigueur fashion accessory is a gigantic orange foam hat shaped like, of course, a giant chicken wing. As well as the “bobbing for wings” contest, attendees can also see competitive eaters downing wings by the plateful (this year: a new world record at 4.86 pounds in 12 minutes), something called the Miss Buffalo Wing Pageant, and, of course, restaurants from around the country offering chicken wings in kaleidoscopic flavors and styles.
It’s the kind of variety that drew what was believed to be the festival’s most diverse crowd ever this year, with wing fans from all 50 states and five continents turning out to take part, including Ms. Guido, who walked away victorious after using her teeth to fish 26 wings out of that blue cheese-filled kiddie pool. (Her strategy — first go for the wings on the surface — went out the window as soon as her goggles became too smeared, although she was proud to say that she managed to pull out a few “two-fers,” which put her over the top. The spoils of victory: bragging rights and a free T-shirt.)
As unpalatable as that may sound, it was par for the course at an event where the relative deliciousness of any menu item could only be described in terms of escalating violence. The National Buffalo Wing Fest is the only place in the country where within a few short feet you can find spicy wing flavors ranging from the obscene (Assid), the nuclear-themed (Triple Atomic), the threatening (Bar-B-Cide, DOA), as well as a few genuine head-scratchers, including the “Ghostface Killa,” which as far as rapper-inspired food names goes is admittedly more appetizing than, say, Ol’ Dirty Bastard.
Of all the extreme behaviors that can be witnessed here, the one most perplexing to outsiders must be the one-upmanship of those gastronomic adventurers known as hot sauce aficionados, people who gleefully bite into a wing so spicy it’s practically glowing, only to reel back and reflexively contort their face into a rictus of agony.
Talk to them, and they sound less like gourmands and more like medieval flagellants, men on a never-ending quest to test the limits of their pain threshold. “Just to see if I can stand it” is a common refrain. They show up to events such as these, often crossing multiple state lines, not simply to eat spicy wings, but to do battle with them. And for many of these warriors, their Waterloo came in the form of a tent for the Atlanta-based chain called Wing Zone, which offered a challenge to all comers: eat 25 of what were by all accounts the hottest wings at the festival and win $250 (which could presumably help pay for the tongue transplant you would need afterward).
According to the chef-cum-carnival barker in charge, these wings measured close to 500,000 on the Scoville Scale, a standardized measurement of a hot sauce’s “hotness.” To put that into perspective, consider that the hottest jalapeños only measure in at about 8,000 Scoville units. When asked if he had taken this challenge himself, the chef gave me a look as if I’d asked him if he’d ever eaten broken glass, and maintained that he refused to even sample this sauce for taste.
It was at this booth that I saw a grown man take one bite of his first wing, immediately throw the rest to the ground, and frantically grab a beer out of the hand of a nearby stranger, tears streaming down his purple face. He had traveled from Cincinnati to Buffalo in order to taste “the hottest of the hot,” and when asked if he was disappointed with his performance, he rasped a breathless, “Hell, no … I’m just thankful I survived.” He echoed most of the other defeated challengers, who spoke with the kind of shell-shocked disbelief sometimes heard from Vietnam vets describing jungle firefights. “Just … fire,” he said. “Fire and pain.”
Watching this, it’s not unreasonable to wonder: Why not skip the wings and just take a bite out of a cactus or something? But after two days, the feelings I most witnessed was wonder and ecstasy, a truly devoted commitment by thousands of people to their favorite food. I might not find having the notion of having to strap on goggles to eat something particularly exciting, but who among us hasn’t enjoyed some favorite food and thought, even for a moment, “My God … I wish I could just dunk my head into a kiddie pool of this stuff?” These people have just found their culinary calling.
Covered in slimy blue cheese and an ear-to-ear smile after her wing-bobbing victory, Teresa Guido put it even more simply than that when asked what drives her to such extremes: “I love wings, and these are the best.” Who can argue with that?
”Natural Beauty” answers that burning question once and for all, “What would you look like if you put on a year’s worth of makeup all at once?”
2. “District 9″ … with robots
Kibwe Tavares’ short film “Robots of Brixton” imagines a world where sentient machines are given inhuman treatment by humans. An interesting memorial to the 1981 Brixton riots.
3. Joey Chestnuts, official winner of Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating contest
For the fifth year in a row, Joey “Jaws” Chestnuts won Nathan’s annual hot dog-scarfing contest in Coney Island.
4. Actual winner of hot dog eating contest
Professional eater Takeru Kobayashi technically ate more ‘dogs on the Fourth than Joey (setting a world record with 69 buns and beef) , but was considered ineligible for the Coney Island event since he won’t sign an exclusive contract with Major League Eating.
Government's attempts to explain healthy pig diet through motivational poster goes awry.
There’s nothing more appetizing than giving human characteristics to the food you’re about to eat. That’s why we always see pictures of pigs with bibs on at rib houses; because for some horrible reason we feel better about eating Porky if we convince ourselves he’s a cannibal.
I always wondered where that strange impulse came from, and now thanks to a new exhibit, “What’s Cooking, Uncle Sam?” at the National Archives, I think I know. The New York Times ran a piece yesterday about the show, which focuses on posters, videos and other media from the Department of Agricultural, spanning all the way back to the revolutionary war.
The most fascinating of these photos is called “Pig Cafeteria”:
“The Pig Cafeteria” was an exhibit produced by the Department of Agriculture to educate farmers about new methods of farming and raising livestock — specifically, what to feed pigs so that they would be healthy and profitable.
So maybe it’s just poor word choice, because when I see Wilbur here licking his lips and holding out his plate at a Pig Cafeteria, I assume that he will be in for a sad and delicious shock, smothered in barbeque sauce. But maybe Pig Cafeterias are just cafeterias for pigs, not serving them — the way we call where kids eat lunch “Human Cafeterias.”
Definitely check out the rest of the exhibit up in the Times, especially the poster demanding “Eat The Carp”:
Or the kind nurses that come to your home and tell you about the benefits of this “dairy product”:
Man, the past looks totally terrifying and not at all tasty. I’ll take Reagan’s “Catsup is a vegetable” decision* over carp demands or pushy milk women any day.
McDonald’s is under attack again for force-feeding our nation’s children greasy, delicious fries. A group called Corporate Accountability International took out full-page ads today in several prominent newspapers, titled “Doctor’s Orders: Stop Marketing Junk Food to Children.“
And while this grievance might not seem new, exactly, CAI is launching another campaign on Thursday against Ronald McDonald himself, whom the watchdog group called a “Deep Fried Joe Camel.” They claim Ronald’s the equivalent of a drug pusher for MSG-addicted kids.
But how “friendly” is Ronald? A new study done by outside marketing group Ace Metric found that in a survey group of 500, an overwhelming amount found a guy with big red lips and white greasepaint more creepy than cute.
McDonald’s refuses to give up on Ronald, though, and its defense on why it needs to keep a terrifying clown as its mascot would be charming if it weren’t so ridiculous and backward. Below, five of the responses McDonald’s has given for keeping Ronald on the payroll.
3. Complaint: Too many damn clowns running around.
McDonald’s response: “There’s only one Ronald,” McDonald’s chief creative officer Marlena Peleo-Lazar said in response to several questions about how many actors portray the smiling clown.
4. Complaint: He is hurting a brand image that is trying to be more adult … like Starbucks.
McDonald’s response: He is the brand image. “It would be almost as if the Geico gecko disappeared, or the Aflac duck,” says one marketing strategist. God forbid.
5. Complaint: Ronald encourages childhood obesity.
McDonald’s response: Around 2004, McDonald’s christened Ronald as a “balanced, active lifestyles ambassador,” and stuck him in commercials where he trained for the Olympics. He got workout clothes. He got a tuxedo. He moved from McDonaldLand into the real world.
You know who can also move into the real world after being trapped in a fantasy land? Freddy Krueger.
It’s actually in CAI’s favor to have a scary mascot act as a deterrent for children trying to buy fries. It should be thanking McDonald’s for keeping such a creepy figure right in front of the golden arches.
Sandbar shark, one of the preferred species for fins
My Chinese grandfather was well into the latter part of his life when he made some money. He’d brought his children up on bowls of white rice with soy sauce and maybe a little pat of lard if he was feeling flush. And so, when it was time to feed his grandchildren, he loved that he could feed them the good stuff, the expensive stuff. I remember him being happy to see my grade school straight-A report cards, but the grins he showed me then were dwarfed by the supernova smiles he’d flash when I ate with him, precociously enjoying shark’s fin soup and other delicacies cousins my age were studiously avoiding at the kids’ table. And so I wonder what he’d think of the movement to ban shark’s fin.
Following in Hawaii’s footsteps, Washington, Oregon and, most significantly, California have introduced statewide legislation that would make it illegal — and highly fineable — to serve or even possess shark’s fin. (Hawaii’s law calls for fines of $5,000 to $15,000 for even first-time offenders.)
Ban supporters talk about the trade’s inhumane treatment of sharks and an outsize environmental impact. The “Ew-ick-how-can-you-do-that” argument is that fins are largely harvested by cutting them off of live sharks, then dumping the shark back in in the water to die. But the more big-picture concern is about the scale of finning: researchers estimate that 73 million sharks are killed every year to feed an exploding demand in fins by a huge, growing middle class in China. Some scientists estimate that ocean shark populations are just 10 percent of what they used to be, and there’s no telling what kind of impact that can have. As Dan Cartamil, a researcher at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, said on the KPBS radio show “These Days,” “You take away the sharks, and, for example, many coral reef ecosystems become degraded. There are suddenly lots of stingrays, because now they have no natural predators, and then they may eat all the oysters, which is a commercial fishery.” And on and on. So the current scale of shark finning is a real problem.
But then I think, again, of my grandfather, and the night he took a teenage me to a nondescript, fluorescent-lit noodle shop in an undistinguished, vaguely smelly part of Macau. Walking past folding tables with diners on stools, going through an unmarked door behind a curtain, we found ourselves suddenly in a plush, one-table dining room, with relatively regal carpeting and a tablecloth of bright red, the color of celebration. I remember the dinner being wonderful, and that the strands of shark’s fin in the soup were thicker than spaghetti, a sign of quality … and extravagant expense. And it became clear that the room, the table, the whole dinner — so strange and luxurious amid such undistinguished circumstances — was built around the event of that soup; the metaphor of that soup was undeniable. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say that much of my grandfather’s life was built around that soup, built around the idea that he could show the world and himself that he’d finally made it, that he could literally feed his family his success. For him, and tens of millions like him, that feeling of satisfaction must be unparalleled.
And so foes of the ban, including Chinese American California state Sen. Leland Yee, are tempted to say things like, “This is an attack on Asian culture.” And Jon Kauffman of SF Weekly sharply noted that it’s not hard to see “an anti-Chinese subtext in the ban,” with the language of the debate rife with “echoes of Americans’ fear of the rising Chinese middle class, and the persistent suspicion and disgust many Americans feel toward other cultures’ foods.”
But, Kauffman continues:
“Globally, we’ve reached the point at which the collapse of an ecosystem has to take precedence over one culture’s culinary heritage. No matter who the primary ‘market’ is, overconsumption is taking sharks — and bluefin tuna, and Atlantic cod, and hundreds of other species — away from all of us, and we all have a right to demand action. The situation is becoming drastic, and drastic, across-the-board bans are warranted.”
If the science is correct, I’d have to agree. (Sorry, grandpa. Really. I’m sorry.) I mean, the cultural import of the dish is, to be frank, as much about the demonstration of status as anything else, and there is no limit to the creativity of aspirational culture to come up with the next big status symbol. I mean, go ahead and buy another pair of Prada shoes instead of taking me out for shark’s fin. It’s fine. I don’t mind, and after a while, you’re not going to mind either. After all, the nature of status symbols is that the more they’re attained, the shallower their actual meaning, and the more attractive the next, other thing eventually becomes.
And cultures evolve. As Judy Ki, of a pro-ban group called Asian Pacific Americans Ocean Harmony Alliance, said, “I personally don’t think our culture is that fragile that it would fall apart without one little delicacy. My grandmother’s feet were bound. That was part of ‘our culture,’ and I’m very glad we’ve said that’s wrong.” (It’s worth noting that several California Chinese American legislators support the ban — and the bill was originally co-sponsored by a Chinese American assemblyman.)
But there is something disconcerting about this ban. A Chinese American chef, Jonathan Wu, noted, “It’s a tough call, but I support the ban. While we are at it, I’d also ban Caspian caviar and bluefin tuna [Caspian sturgeon and bluefin tuna are both considered endangered by many scientists] until their fisheries recover — no doubt, that would raise an uproar in certain other cultural communities.”
And that’s the thing: It’s not that this ban is “racist” as some have put it, it’s that it’s the kind of thing that smells a bit of cynical political posturing, scoring cheap environmental points because no politician is going to lose any votes that matter. Get rid of a grody-sounding food that only the Chinese are stupid enough to save up their money for? Easy! Try to take away the endangered tuna from voters’ Friday night sushi date, though, and there’ll be hell to pay. And don’t even think about doing anything about factory farming, the cheap-meat industry that is unequivocally ruining huge swaths of our ecology and our health. It’s not a good state of affairs when we can easily get up a head of steam behind laws that take away others’ pleasures, but refuse to even take a hard look at our own.
With the sad-making news last week that the Easy-Bake Oven as we know it will be going to the Great Incinerator in the Sky, we here at Salon Food started reminiscing over our own toy food memories. There were the Easy-Bake knockoff Chuck E. Cheese pizza ovens, there were the heartbreakingly dear Snoopy Sno Cones, there were the furiously lame Queasy-Bake Cookerator Dip n’ Drool Dog Bones.
It wasn’t long, then, before Aviva Shen, editorial fellow extraordinaire, realized that you could put together a whole menu of toy-made foods: “Basically,” she said, looking at dozens of Easy-Bake bootlegs, including one that grilled hamburgers, “if a child had to survive on toy oven food alone, they could do it … though they would quickly develop diabetes.”
Bah! A small price to pay for self-reliance! And probably no more dangerous than giving hormone-charged 17-year-olds keys to thousands of pounds of rocketing steel. (Probably.) So we scoured history to find the finest play-date victuals. Please, sit back and enjoy our menu of toy-made foods.
I am robot, hear me roar. 
Government's attempts to explain healthy pig diet through motivational poster goes awry. 
Who wouldn't accept food from this guy? 
Sandbar shark, one of the preferred species for fins 
