Call me Ellen, because I prefer boneless to bone-in.

It wasn’t always this way. Sure, there was a time when it was unfathomable to do anything but accept the primal urge to tear chicken meat from the bone with sauce caressing the corners of my mouth.

There was always something so satisfying about piling up chicken bones like you’re meticulously crafting a scale model of the graveyard from Lion King.

The only debates circulating around the table were drumsticks vs. flats, blue cheese vs. ranch, buffalo vs. honey BBQ, and the merits of the Red Wings most recent Stanley Cup run. All deserving of a filibuster.

But that was then.

Somewhere during the fall of 2016 I saw the light.

As a single, hungry young buck in New York City, I was always looking for the next place to dunk my bone-in. I preferred ranch, to answer the question from above, but I’m not going to discount bleu cheese. There’s a time and a place - usually limited to weekends spent in Western NY.

I stumbled across a neighborhood bar on the Upper East Side the afternoon on the way to watch a Bills game after Postmate-ing an everything bagel and gatorade 300 yards down the street and up five flights of stairs. It’s since been ravaged by the pandemic and is no longer serving anybody, let alone the delicacy known as boneless.

“I’ll do 12 buffalo wings with a side of ranch, please” I say to the just-flirtatious-enough bartender to think I should leave a number on a napkin. I was 22, guys.

“So we’re out of wings but can do boneless!”

Taken aback initially, I obliged. Something about craving that tangy heat only buffalo sauce can deliver was too deeply ingrained on that lazy Sunday.

I’d had boneless before but they felt childish - like chicken nuggets with a high school diploma. But something about trying to portray the image of an old soul kept me away for years. Embarrassed but hungry enough not to care, I sipped my hefeweizen and awaited my fate.

They arrive like any other basket of wings would - red plastic basket, parchment paper base, cup of ranch on the side, and absolutely dripping. A celery and carrot stick cozied up next to the ranch looking to get in on the action too. They would not leave the bar that day either.

That’s entirely too many words building up to a meal so here’s what happened next with brevity in mind:

The fork was obviously a game changer. Not only were my hands spared from the constant wiping on napkins, no wing went wasted.
An all around better flavor profile - more consistently sauced across the board
The surface area was more precisely coated with ranch upon dipping. I could go full dunk if I wanted to, or just a dab. No longer was I forced to decide between round-pegging a flat wing into a cup of dressing or dipping just the tip which risks an uneven flavor profile.
I was actively saving the planet by cutting down on napkin and wet wipe consumption.
No raw spots, no stray bone fragments targeting my trachea, no chewy pieces of cartilage, and a crispier frying experience altogether.

What my buddies and I thought we looked like on the streets of NYC, fall 2016

I pushed my plate away with a look that said my world had changed. Everything I knew had flipped. Maybe it was the flavor, or the tidy cleaning experience, or the dew point of 53 degrees on a crispy fall NYC day that tipped the scales but I knew I’d never go back. I’d entered the next phase of my palette. A more refined level of consumption - like the move from Old Forester to Woodford, or Sutter Home to Duckhorn.

You can make the argument that because they’re all-around more mature and represent the original idea of wings, bone-in are superior. And that’s fine, I respect wrong opinions as well. I’ll even dabble here and there if I’m in the mood.

But don’t expect to see me without my fork at the bar 99 times out of 10. Enjoy wiping your fingers, you degenerates.

I'm Sorry