September 08, 2003


Well, the secret is out. The Asses of Fire Tour had more of a purpose than originally disclosed here.

Mitch, Rommie, Walt, Bob, Dirk and I didn't subject ourselves to gastric distress merely for personal reasons. Professional calling took precedent.

And while it doesn't bear the A.O.F. name in print, Rommie's account of our escapades in the Tribune is no less accurate. It's all there, baby.

A telling excerpt about our visit to Legends:

So this is what they call an ``upscale'' sports bar. Plush leather couches, sleek wood floors, brick accent walls - as one colleague observed, ``It's like eating wings in a Rooms to Go.'' About those wings, the glistening, day-glo orange of Legend's sauce was disturbingly similar to Joe Theismann's sunless tan, but they still scored major points in the flavor and presentation departments. Not exceptionally hot, but light (for wings, anyway) and satisfying. By the way, you won't find Legend's ``private stock'' wings on the menu - you'll have to ask your server.

Brilliance, I tell you.

Anyway, there has been some shock and dismay that this might mean the end of the A.O.F. journalistic franchise. "Please, for the love of all things holy and sacred, give us wing reports,'' you've collectively cried.

Cry no more.

In what promises to be a weekly (instead of daily) excursion, we started anew with a visit this week to Rick's On The River.

Rommie and I had never been before, but we were pleasantly surprised by the ambiance. The place is huge; it could be the Pentagon of waterfront partying. Lots of outside picnic benches and tables along the Hillsborough River, plenty of tables inside.

The wings, quite frankly, were friggin' huge. We ordered 20 breaded and 10 plain - and all hot.

They came out hot alright. Lava hot. Something about the breading kept the meat at a temperature that only Satan could love.

Did I say they were huge? It was like eating a donkey's leg. I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

The side benefit of all that temperature is that the spice came wafting up from the plate and searing my nasal passages. I love that sensation.

The evidence of the aforementioned wing hugeness: the fact we left three on the plate. Couldn't do it. We then did an audit to see how many each of us had eaten, and determined that we had been given three extra wings that we shouldn't have gotten.

Yet another reason to go back.

(An interesting note about this photo: Our waitress told us, "You know, you're not the first ones to take pictures of your wings." Apparently there's some sort of Wing Photo Club out there.)

What did we overlook? Nairy a thing.

Swimming in spices and poultry product, we decided to burn three calories and pose with a life-size Captain Morgan statue outside. And one of us - I won't say his name was Mitch - was so woozy with cayenne narcosis that he attempted to slip the Cap'n a little tongue.

To borrow a catch phrase: Know when to say when.

Posted by Jeff at September 8, 2003 08:40 AM | TrackBack