As they only have a few remaining months here in Denver, we've decided that the Scottish Representative and his wife need as much exposure to our stunted version of America as possible. The real challenge will be avoiding overexposure of ourselves in the process.
There are some truly American institutions that should only be experienced in this country. One is Kentucky Fried Chicken, which blends Southern stereotypes with artery-clogging tastiness. Unfortunately, the Colonel's product has surrendered to lamentable political correctness and disrespect for most consumers. I have a hard time believing that changing the name to KFC made this stuff any healthier; maybe if we were forced to hear unpleasant words like "fried" (read: "cholesterol bomb"), more of us would be able to get up off our couches without having chest pain.
In the meantime, we continue to drink and eat good (by which I mean good-tasting or fat-laden) foods. One classic American invention only slightly lower on the Nobel list than the discovery of cortisone is the Buffalo wing. There's a lot of debate on the origin of this delicacy. Some people think that the wings are from real buffalo. But that's stupid, because the wing was actually invented in Buffalo, New York, so that fire-breathing humans could fend off roaming packs of timberwolves in the bitter cold winters. Given that, we felt it exceedingly important for the Scots to expand their palates to include sauces that can kill; we knew that hot curry from those stands that are as common in the U.K. as Taco Bell is here would have already tested their intestinal strength.
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To maintain some flexibility in our diet, we decided to try the Buffalo Wild Wings Grill & Bar at 5138 South Wadsworth Boulevard in Lakewood, another outlet in the rapidly expanding franchise. BW3, as we called it in Houston, offers the ultimate in wing span, with a spectrum of sauces ranging from mild to medium to hot and everything in between. And for those in your party who believe that buffalo wings come from bison, there are also teriyaki and lemon-based sauces. Unfortunately, those in our party who believe this also had a difficult time figuring out which BW3 we were visiting. Amazingly, the Scot and his wife, Magellan (who carries a GPS unit in her purse so that she can find her way back to the table after visiting the powder room), were the only ones in our group of ten who had no question about where we were going.
Once we all managed to find the spot, we ordered up a typical American feast of bad beer or good beer pronounced incorrectly (it's "Smithicks" or even "Smitticks," not "SmithWicks"). Without any coaching on our part, the Scots ramped up their alcohol intake to the appropriate level for the hotness of wing ingested. As we gorged ourselves and splattered Buffalo sauce and ranch dressing, they also got to witness the technological breakthrough of the Tide Pen to obliterate such evidence as the sauce spots and blood splatters from our waitress, who refused to bring beer in a timely fashion.
I don't know if there's anything like Buffalo Wild Wings in Scotland, but since I'm a typically arrogant American, I'm going to assume that any wing emporium there would be a bland, understated imitation. I just hope we've given the Scots the necessary life skills to see through any facade when they're faced with the clever marketing ploys of fried-chicken vendors or hawkers of "lite" beer. But such BS -- along with our wings -- is an essential part of the American experience.