September 15, 2003
ASSES OF FIRE TOUR STOP NO. 13
You might think that publication of an account of a chicken wing tour in a major American newspaper would spell the end of said endeavor. Last week's trip to Rick's proved otherwise.
To continue forging on, we trampled the vintage to
The Press Box on South Dale Mabry Highway in Tampa.
The Press Box will never be confused for a fine dining establishment. And it shouldn't be. It's dark, in a way that only the Anne Frank House was dark. It smells of Lucky Strikes from years gone by. It has lots of big flashy TV screens that hold your attention as you drink yourself into oblivion and kill yourself with cholesterol one bite at a time.
We were there for the wings, though, so all other matters become secondary. The four of us ordered 10 hot, 20 "cruel" and 10 "atomic" flavored.
Of the three, I think I liked the cruel wings the best (pictured above). They brought some heat, but still had good flavor to them. The atomics were like putting a cigar out in your mouth: lots of heat and a definite smoky flavor to them. They were good, but at a certain point, you want your mouth to stop crying.
The afternoon was but the start of an avalanche of caloric intake for Rommie, all of which can be viewed further by clicking here. You really shouldn't miss it. The Rick's photos are posted there as well.
Postscript: Three hours after we had returned to the newsroom, I walked down to get my security badge checked. During that trek between the two main buildings on the campus, a bug of heroic proportions flew up my left nostril. (Stay with me on this. It's worth it.)
Not wanting to just let it live inside my cranium, I decided to fish it out with one of my prodigious digits. The only thing: one of my fingers still had the residue of "atomic" sauce on it.
Mind you, this was probably four hand-washings later, (I like clean hands. So sue me.), and yet my fingers were still befouled with the stuff.
So there I am, finger dug half way to my cerebellum, one eye tearing profusely because of the bug, the other full of fluid because of the cayenne cocktail in my nostril. By the time I showed up at Security, I looked like a frothy-mouthed dog in need of a rabies put-down.
Anyway, I got the bug out and my nostril eventually cooled from its magma-like state. But it was a painful lesson, to be sure.
And no, there are no photos of that little event.