My last trip to Buffalo Wild Wings is shrouded in the distant fog of my youth, some vague recollection of eating wings at one with my dad.

So I haven’t set foot in one for over a decade, and didn’t know what to expect when invited to one. Normally I reject invitations to see people or things but in this situation I had less choice.

Setting foot in Buffalo Wild Wings,  I experienced immediate sensory overload.

In danger of losing what little attention span I maintain, I escaped from my party and went to the bar.

Thanking god I sat at the alcohol dispensary. The bartender, a nice man with a scraggly beard poured me a pint of Farmhouse Tank 7 when I ordered a small.

I didn’t think I needed a pint of nine point beer but I’ve been wrong before.

The pricing for my beverage was extremely reasonable, I did not feel taken advantage of.

It would take some sick and diabolical capitalism to create an establishment where its survival depends more on intoxication than gouging your customers on the goods.

While the fries were weak the ‘small’ order of honey bourbon wings were actually pretty good.

Maybe I was just sauced by the time the food got there but I enjoyed getting covered in chicken grease, bits, and sauce.

I thought no way I’ll eat like all 16 of these wings, but it turns out even I can underestimate myself.

Buffalo Wild Wings did a pretty good job, for being a Buffalo Wild Wings.

The service was good, the staff probably figured us as not the usual crowd based on our manners and dignity.

I probably won’t ever go to another Buffalo Wild Wings but wouldn’t be that upset if I had to, unless I had to drive.