Chicken wings so hot you’ve got to sign a waiver before requesting ranch for your celery sticks? I put
Tabasco on everything but my cereal, so I had to try these things. The place:
Jake Melnick’s Corner Tap. The plan: Eat Jake’s Seriously. Ridiculously. Over-the-Top. H-O-T Wings—then channel the fire to set a record on Golden Tee.
The kick comes from the Red Savina pepper, which the “Guinness Book of World Records” listed as the world’s hottest until February 2007. (Now it’s number two, displaced by the Naga Jolokia pepper, also known as the Bhut Jolokia.) Jake’s recipe debuted in early January and already it’s been enhanced with even more heat.
The wings ($8.95) are served with a waiver stating that, regardless of pain or digestive tract damage incurred while eating these wings, Jake’s isn’t liable. They also come with a bell, which you can ring as a fire alarm. Should it sound, your server emerges with a plate of ice cream, sour cream and milk, which cool the burning. Plus, there’s a bonus: A plastic fireman’s hat to wear during your meal.
As the wings came, Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper” was banging in my head. I’ve jumped out of planes. I’ve gone bungee jumping. I’m a child of divorce. I can handle anything.
I took my first bite.
A lot of other spicy wings sacrifice taste for heat. Not the case at Jake’s. These were, unquestionably, the best I’d ever had. They were meaty and crisp and, frankly, not as hot as I’d expected.
That was, until I ate the fourth wing. My eyes began to water. My lips started to go numb.
By the sixth wing, my left arm was tingling. I began sweating underneath my plastic fireman’s hat. I could feel the heat behind my eyes. My face began to itch. But I was not going to ring that bell.
I wanted to spit. I didn’t want the burn out of my mouth—I wanted it out of my body. The room began to resemble a county-fair madhouse. I was approaching a full-blown hallucination.
Stay focused, I told myself. Don’t fear the reaper. More cowbell … no! No bell!
My hands were shaking. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to get up from the table, slam back a beer, play Golden Tee and go home. I was in the final stretch—only three more wings to go. Do I force myself through the intense heat and eat them as fast as possible? Or do I take my time and enjoy the delicious taste that remained, knowing that it couldn’t get any hotter?
I took my time. A stroke became more likely as I lost the ability to form words. My tongue had given up on me.
When I finished, I walked to the Golden Tee machine. Usually I score at par, but I was over by four. I blame the wings. But so what? The real victory was that the bell never pealed. I didn’t need any milk or sour cream. If my Bar Mitzvah didn’t prove it, then this certainly did. I was a man.
And I had a plastic fireman’s hat to prove it.
Click here to search metromix for more Buffalo wings[David Himmel is a Metromix special contributor. metromix@tribune.com]
