Desire of Wings

Sometimes--sometimes there is a wing vulture at Hickory Hut. What he does is, he orders something small, and waits. He acts like he's waiting for his dollar's worth of potatoes or cornbread. But what he's really waiting for is you, that you will come in, place a big order full of ribs and wings and sides, but then you'll leave, to make a phone call in the parking lot, attend to the kids in the back seat, whatever. And he's also hoping that the counter guy who sets down your bag of goodies will be new, or busy, or just plain dumb, and that when he asks for the receipt he can hand in his little one, and run off with the goods. Then you come in, your mouth watering for your box of wings, and... ooh.

I can only imagine what happens, because when I saw the wing vulture in action he seemed pretty confused and hapless, and the guy behind the counter was pressing his lips together and shaking his head in a slightly bored and amused way that said, "You can keep trifling with me, wing vulture, because I'm that bored and not unkind, but I'm never going to let you win." And all around, patrons sat on the benches of the Hickory Hut, in a room that can only be described as a Museum of Regrettable Tile, and watched the wing vulture and the counter man, not taking sides, but being a little more alert than they would have been at hearing their number called.

I tell you, that's a tribute. I've been to a lot of restaurants--hell, I've been to Aquavit--but in all my days I never saw anyone hovering around the line trying to grab a plate with some beef cheeks and kimchi foam and run off into the night.

I could write a book on the various touching moments I witnessed at Hickory Hut: the electrical contractors hunched baseball-cap bill to baseball-cap bill over a bucket of pork rib tips, big burly guys in such an intimate heart of a silhouette, murmuring and licking their fingers. A bunch of kids just loosed from work on a Friday afternoon, each getting their own takeout in preparation for an afternoon of video games and Malibu-Cokes before the evening's real entertainment. (When they left the place it seemed like each drove two cars, and a flock of rust-covered birds roared back into the neighborhood.)

Then there was the man wearing nothing but a wool Pendleton on one of the coldest nights of the year, who pointed out to me that you saved a lot on the Tuesday or Thursday wing specials--when a dozen wings are $7, vs. the ordinary $8, and two dozen are $12, instead of the usual $14. Every Thursday, he said, he picks up two dozen wings and takes them home so he and his wife can sit on the couch, eat wings, and watch wrestling. That seemed so nice to me, that of all the things life could hand out, it would hand you someone who likes to sit on the couch and eat wings and watch wrestling with you. I can't think of how many men in America get the wings and turn on wrestling and watch their women retreat to a far room.

So how are these Hickory Hut wings? They're real good, covered with a lot of herbs and spices, and golden-crisp. For my money, though, the sweet, greasy rib tips are the thing: slightly caramelized, a bit plummy, rich as gilded diamonds. Get them in a combo meal with the mac and cheese, which is ultra-creamy, tender as summer raindrops, and as cheesy-melty as can be, accompanied by three wings, ho-jos (which are cajun-spice-dusted potato discs), and margarine-wiped Texas toast for $9 and...well, maybe you shouldn't, or you might find a calling as a combo-meal vulture. I also became a big fan of the barbecued beef sandwich ($4), soft meat in a tangy sauce on a perfectly grill-charred bun. I didn't think too highly of the dry beef ribs, or the fatty (but not in a good way) pork ribs, but the greens with ham hocks (from $1.49) were good. (Hickory Hut offers so many meal deals, it would take a thousand words to explain, but let me just say you can eat for $4, you can eat well for $10, and if you manage to spend more than $15, you're just showing off.)

I'd been hearing for years about the wings at Hickory Hut, but for some reason never made it in there. I guess it's just one of those things: One day you're not that interested in wings, and one day you're intensely interested. I think my newfound wing passion arose because I got to thinking about the hot culinary trend of the cucina povera, the kitchen of the poor, and all the excitement about tripe, blood, organ meats, and such that has been bubbling through food-head circles. Well, I asked myself, what's the American cucina povera? It's pretty clearly ramen, off-brand mac and cheese, and cans with dents. (And anyone who's spent about two months in that world can understand why, say, Italian Americans fled their own cucina povera for meatballs and acres of cheese.)