Take note of my surroundings, I tell myself. Remember any names that are mentioned. Remember the layout of the place, I tell myself. Remember the sounds of the street outside. Try to preserve as many details as possible so you can describe it to the police when you’re rescued from this kidnapping, I tell myself. Where am I? Is this a Jigsaw trap? Why do I find myself glued to this chair in this crappy restaurant being force-fed these absolute abominations of hot wings? Oh sweet merciful Gilbert Christ of Latter Day Wings, deliver me from this pile of shitbones covered in crap! M. Night Shyamalan twist ending: We came to Flancer’s by choice.
We normally start these posts by giving you a chronological story about our night of wing-eating, starting as we walk up to the place and ending at some bar trying to master the fine art of assholery. I can’t do that with this post, because it would be a disservice to you and to anyone who ever thought about possibly contemplating the idea of starting to think about eating a wing, ever.
Look, I don’t know Mr. Flancer. I don’t even know if there IS a Mr. Flancer or if some corporate shitstains just decided that they’d name a small chain of restaurants something kind of kitschy and catchy. I don’t care. I know I might hurt some feelings here, so I should state for the record that we only tried the wings here. Nothing else. People have told me that their sandwiches are quite good and that they enjoy their time at Flancer’s. I don’t fucking care. I hope their deepfryer accidentally gets caught in an unfortunate smelting accident.
Tyler had read good reviews about Flancer’s wings! I swear he did! I even asked him later if maybe he was reading about some other restaurant called Facer’s or Francine’s or Flancees or something, but nope. We checked. Flancer’s. Good wings, he read. Try the prickly pear flavor, he read. I want to meet the people that wrote these things, including:
- Yelp user Shasta S.
- Yelp user Bruce W.
- Google Review user AZTony
- Urbanspoon user Kori
Yes, I want to meet you all and smash your fucking faces into a jelly for making Flancer’s seem like a good place to go to. Email me your address and I will show up in your front yard with a store-bought ninja costume and a mall shop samurai sword and I will challenge you to a battle to the death in the name of the sanctity of hot wings. I will pass out flyers in your neighborhoods for Proposition 306, enabling the right to execute individuals who falsely label shitty wings as “good”. I will steal your social security numbers and ruin your credit (I am a Mexican, after all). I will offer to give you financial advice and then lead you to invest poorly in the stock market. I’ll do it.
But I digress. This is about our time in
We ordered a dozen of the hot and, even though they didn’t have it on the menu and we looked really flaming asking about them, we inquired about the prickly pear flavor. Turns out it’s not on the menu anymore but they can still make it for you. Oh goody. Oh rapture. But fine, we ordered the wings and a couple of beers (no draft, bottles only). The restaurant was filled with a whole lot of very stuffy families in suits and ties that gawked at us drinking beer and then looked at each other like “Did you bring the pamphlets? They need to be saved.”
The wings came to our table rather quickly, if memory serves me right. See, I only have pictures and nightmares to go on, I’ve tried to block actual memories out from my mind. But out they came and the first thing I noticed was that the wings were heavily sauce but seemed to lack any sort of discernible visual texture. Like…they were smooth. And that normal vinegary tang you get from a fresh plate of hot, fried wings coming to your table? Nothing of the sort from Flancer’s. No smell at all except that weird stale smell of something that is currently defrosting. You know, freezer smell. We immediately knew something wasn’t right here. Here were these average-sized chicken wings with no stand-out features and no smell to help anticipate what we were about to taste.
I tend to put my hand just over the plate to see how hot of a plate of wings we’re dealing with, but when I did it at Flancer’s I couldn’t feel anything. No heat. No steam rising. O….k…..well, time to put on my big boy pants and eat these things everyone has been raving about, right? Start with a hot wing as a control flavor, right? In case you’re reading and waiting for me to talk about how awful these things were at this point, fuck you. Just, I mean…this was painful, ok? GIVE ME A MOMENT.
My thought process upon grasping one of these soggy shits was:
I can handle it.
….fuck this wing blog, I’m going to start writing about mexican food.”
It was COLD. It was cold. It was soggy and cold and the flavor of the “hot sauce” tasted like taco sauce mixed with pepper. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t even mild. It wasn’t buffalo sauce, it was in-season, freshly picked ripe asshole squeezed into a bottle and tossed with red food coloring. Oh man, I wasn’t even disappointed at this point, I was just sad for anyone else that had eaten this before and thought to themselves that THIS was what a wing was supposed to be. I was also pissed at them, as previously mentioned with the ninja suit and the stock market investing and whatnot.
Tyler looked at me and groaned audibly with a face that either meant “great blowjob” or “disgusting wings”. Who the fuck cooked these things, Helen Keller? Whatever, I told myself. Maybe it was just one bad wing, I told myself. Try the prickly pear, I told myself. I took a bite of the prickly pear, equally as soggy and pointless, and then instantly wanted to strangle the person that told me to try the prickly pear before realizing it was me and I couldn’t logically strangle myself to death. They were sweet, but not candy sweet like your average raspberry mango chipotle bullshit wing is. This was like a dull sweet, like they fucked up these wings so bad they couldn’t even get “ADD SUGAR” right for this sauce.
For so long we had enjoyed the benefit of good wings on our nights out. Great wings. Excellent wings. King of wings. We had eaten quality wings for so long in a row that we were absolutely destined to find the nadir of buffalo wings, and found it we had. I should have held the plate above my head and started shouting “KALI MA” while Tyler reached in and ripped my beating heart out of my chest once I realized how perfectly awful these wings were. I would have let them sacrifice me to the Flancer’s volcano at this point.
We figured that this was our duty, to eat these wings and report them to you, and so we actually finished these things. You can send donations and titty-pics to our email for our troubles. I won’t even bore you with what we did afterward, because it doesn’t matter. We were drained from these awful wings, and we were ready to just retire and never eat a wing ever again. It took the full week to recover from this shitfest of a place. Was there anything redeeming? Great service? Lively crowd? Cheap beer? NOPE, FUCK NO, and MEH.
And earlier, when I said taking a picture of the empty table was the highlight of the night? I take it back. Walking out and seeing the Flancer’s sign, knowing that meant that it was over and we were done…that was the highlight of the night.
Fuck you Flancer’s. I hope you burn down in the middle of the night when no one is there and that the damage is limited only to your particular restaurant and no other businesses are harmed. I realize that’s a very specific “burn that place down” request but I’m a very nice and understanding man and want only the best for the world. It just so happens that what’s best for the world also includes DENYING THEM THE ABILITY TO EVER “FRY” A WING AGAIN AND POSSIBLY FIREBOMBING THEIR KITCHEN.
DAMN IT. No, wait, screw that. I’m going to change the word “damn” to “flance” from here on out. It deserves its own awful distinction for being the worst wings ever.
This post was written by Xavvi