My initial response is: if you can circle the earth twice, why don’t you just drop off a few million pounds in places where one chicken for a village causes more excitement than the Super Bowl.

My secondary response is actually a question: How many chickens does it take to make 25 billion chicken wings. Hah! You say: do the math dummy; one chicken has only two wings. But your assumption would be wrong. I turned to the Wing-onomics department (true!) at The National Chicken Council for an answer.

You’ll have to jump because you, like chickens, cannot fly.

Wing-onomics

The vast majority of wings, especially those destined for foodservice, are disjointed, with the third joint (the thin part known as the flapper) being exported to Asian countries and the meatier first and second joints being sold domestically.  The wing is usually split into two parts or portions, known as the “drumette” and the mid-section or “flat” and sold to food service or retail outlets.

A chicken has two wings, and chicken companies are not able to produce wings without the rest of the chicken.  Therefore, the supply of wings is limited by the total number of chickens produced.  When the demand for wings is stronger than the demand for other chicken parts, the price of wings will go up. Wing prices always go up in the fourth quarter of the year as restaurants stock up for the Super Bowl and prices usually peak in January during the run-up to the big game.

In the Midwest, for instance which includes Indianapolis, home of Super Bowl XLVI, the price of wings (whole) for the week of January 16-20, 2012 was $1.96/lb wholesale, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Poultry Market News Service.   This represents a 50 percent increase in price from six months ago in July, 2011.

“The good news for consumers,” said NCC’s Roenigk, “is that food service and retail outlets generally plan months in advance for the NFL playoffs and Super Bowl Sunday, meaning that increased wholesale costs for the most part aren’t passed on to consumers’ plates.”

That’s great news. You might find this interesting as well.

According to NPD Group data, not all regions of the country are equal when it comes to eating wings.

This year’s Super Bowl matchup between the New York Giants and New England Patriots should hold wing consumption relatively steady compared to last year’s levels.   That is because New Englanders and Patriots fans are six percent less likely than the national average to order chicken wings at a food service establishment, but fans of the New York Giants and those others in the Mid-Atlantic region are 24 percent more likely.

A New York Giants – Baltimore Ravens match-up would have produced maximum wing consumption out of the four possible Super Bowl match-ups.   Those in the South Atlantic region, including Ravens fans, are 27 percent more likely than the national average to order chicken wings at a food service establishment.

Should the San Francisco 49ers have won in overtime and faced the Patriots, wing consumption would have taken a hit. Those in the in the Pacific region are 34 percent less likely to order wings.

I didn’t have the balls (that’s another story) to ask what would have happened if the Dallas Cowboys had made it to the Super Bowl, but my guess is that sales at Wingstop, based in Richardson, would have quadrupled and they would have probably had to rely on duck or grackle wings to meet the demand. As it is, Wingstop, with 500 locations, plans to “sauce and toss 5.6 Million Wings on Super Sunday.”

Chicken pot pie at Lady & Sons in 2008. One serving could feed a family of four.

In August 2008, I traveled to Savannah, Georgia where I dined at Paula Deen’s restaurant Lady & Sons. We ran a post titled “Paula Deen Wants to Kill You.” I wrote:

I can still smell the rancid butter that hit us in the face when we walked in the door. I’ve got to find the pictures I took of the food I ate–everything was dripping in butter. I remember the chicken pot pie was big enough for four and almost everything was fried. OK, she admits she’s “not your cardiologist,” but she really is contributing to the delinquency of dieters. The night we went, at least 75 per cent of the diners were beyond overweight–they were obese. It was sad–like people watching at the slots in Vegas–everyone was gambling with their lives.

Last week Paula Deen confirmed the rumor: she has Type 2 diabetes. I wonder how many of her dedicated fans also suffer from Type 2? This really chaps my sass because two members of my family didn’t have a choice: they both were diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when they were young. They have to continually monitor their diet and control their blood sugar. However, Ms. Deen, and other people who put on blinders and continue to fill their body with fat and sugar, had an option. Like not eating a burger made with Krispy Kreme donuts. It’s now rumored that Deen may become the spokesperson for Novartis, a company with a drug designed to treat diabetes. If she personally profits from developing Type 2 diabetes (Hey yáll, I’m your endocrinologist!), I’m going to go berserk. I can already see the talk show circuit lighting up. It makes me sick.

UPPITY DATE: This link from a adult beverage wholesaler.

I hate it all as much as I hated eating in Paula Deen’s restaurant in Savannah. I can still smell the cloud of burnt butter that met me at the door of Lady and Sons Restaurant. The portions were obnoxiously huge and I had to shower when I got back to my hotel.

The last time I visited the Fair, I sat at one of the picnic benches and watched a family of three eat their way through a pile of food. The husband and wife, maybe in their early 40s, were obese. The woman was in a wheel chair with an oxygen tank. The husband, who weighed at least 350 pounds, was shoveling food in his mouth using both hands. The saddest sight was their son. He couldn’t have been 12 years old and already on the verge of obesity. He was listlessly staring at the ground and gnawing on a huge turkey leg.

I can hear you crying: “It’s only once a year. Live a little. Have some fun.” I can’t. That isn’t fun or funny to me. It’s gross.

The Anita at Avila's.

After the World Series, I asked you guys to tell me where to ease my depression by going face down in a plate of enchiladas. I took all of your suggestions to heart, but headed to one of my usual down-and-dirty favs, Escondido. As I drove down Maple, I passed Avila’s. I haven’t eaten there since the high-drama family feud that sent Ricky Avila to open Mextopia on Greenville erupted.

I’ve always liked Avila’s. One of my favorite things about the place is the smell that greets you when you open the door—fresh chopped jalapenos, onions, and cilantro. The “new” Avila’s, now run by one branch of the family, has an updated interior. The walls are a cheery blue and the enlarged Mexican Loteria cards hanging on said walls pop out like friendly greeters.

But grrrrrrrrr on the enchiladas! I ordered the “Anita’s”: one cheese enchilada, one soft cheese taco, and one meat taco. The ground beef in the hard shell taco was inedible, almost sour. The soft cheese taco was covered with a runny yellow queso that, save for the pickled jalapenos I threw on top, was void of flavor. Even an enchilada covered with a meaty chili sauce was bland. There were no crunchy onions in the center. No think gooey melted cheese oozing out. No comfort. Oh, and the guacamole was just a scoop of mashed avocado we had to dress with spoonfuls of salsa, salt, and lemon. The underlying lettuce was brown. I know they can do better than this, but next time I want to use up valuable calories, I will head to El Jordan or Escondido. Or, at this point, Mexico. So depressed.

First, the name. You might think that a Mr. (or Ms.) J. Black is the namesake owner of the Henderson bar/restaurant next to Neighborhood Services. But you’d be wrong. There is no real live J. Black working behind the scenes. As our waitress revealed: the restaurant gets its name from a character on the soap opera Days of Our Lives, a badass amnesiac introduced to viewers in 1986 as The Pawn (what? I was 15 and lived in the woods. I taped it on my VCR and watched it after school, okay?). The waitress offered no other explanation than the owners are fans (and men). She then went on to mention that there are menu items named after other characters, like the Stefano, a pizza with applewood-smoked bacon, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, shallots, and arugula. And though I personally think this is silly, I was willing to get into the spirit of things, so I searched the menu for other items named after the fictional residents of fictional Salem. I found only the Marlena Margarita. Maybe two is enough to carry the theme. But calling the Greek pizza the Victor Kiriakis seems natural, and I might suggest calling the coffee and donuts dessert the Bo & Hope—just to push it a little further. Or not.

They clearly had a very different theme in mind when they named the tacos on the brunch menu. The Title Tacos come in five varieties: 1971, 1977, 1992, 1993, and 1995—the years the Cowboys won the Super Bowl. (In Austin, apparently the tacos are called 1963, 1969, 1970, and 2005.) We ordered the 1977, with scrambled eggs, pulled pork, sauteed onions, and smoked gouda. What we were served was the 1992 (we verified our order with our ticket at the end of the meal), which was “slow-cooked pulled pork simmered in a spicy verde sauce,” according to the menu. Sad face. “It would be like ordering pot stickers in a Chinese restaurant and getting egg rolls,” according to my friend.

Unfortunately this was one of several disappointments.

I ordered the Southern Louie, which the menu described as “fried avocado topped with fresh lump crab meat and roasted tomatoes drizzled with a tequila-ginger vinaigrette.” Despite being fried, the lightly battered avocado arrived cold, and the crab meat looked like wet sawdust, not sweet lumps of seafood. The few tomatoes I liked, but the vinaigrette overpowered every other flavor. It was pretty but not delicious.

The prosciutto eggs Benedict also arrived cold. Not warm, certainly not hot. Cold. My friend asked for another and pushed the plate aside. The second effort arrived much warmer, but the Hollandaise was not on the side (as per the original order). He didn’t have the heart to complain a second time. The sourdough English muffin, slathered in butter and grilled was delightful, but the prosciutto was cut too thick and the “spicy Hollandaise” had not a hint of spice and instead looked and tasted like Parkay Squeeze. The accompanying home fries were completely uninspired. The rejected plate of food sat on the empty table beside us for the duration of the meal, no one bothering to take it back to the kitchen.

Having spotted the fried mac and cheese on the online menu, I was disappointed when it wasn’t on the brunch menu. However, when a tattooed fella identifying himself as one of the owners dropped by our table and I expressed my frustration, he saw that only a few minutes later a cone of mac and cheese meteors were delivered to the table. My first bite was still cold in the center, but things improved from there, and with the accompanying pimento cream cheese sauce, I found them to be pretty tasty. But as my friend says, “Good God, I’ve had less breading at the State Fair.”

And I’ve had better service on the midway. Who knows why, but the floor was understaffed, which could explain why those congealing eggs were ignored and our food arrived cold. By the time we left, the place was packed and there were just two waitresses working the large room. And all we could say about that was “like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives …”

They also cut the fakafaka out of our copy.

This month I reviewed the Meddlesome Moth for D Magazine. Each month before I type the first word,  I know I’m usually “allowed” around 1,600 words for a lead dining review. How much space I actually get is determined by many factors but the major word-killer is ad sales—too much or too little. I turned in my original review of MM at 1,894 words. There were so many interesting story angles and I tried to get them all in.

A few days later, my esteemed editor Tim “Slasher” Rogers says, “Dude, I’m cutting Moth to 1,100.” Tempers flared. “Why don’t you just cut my heart out while your at it, Rogers!” I screamed. I argued for every word and suggested cuts in other sections of the magazine which led to flaring tempers at other sections of the magazine. It’s not always fun and games around here.

Anywhoo, Tim pissed me off because he cut a whole section on a beer flight I sampled with the assistance of Matt Quenette, one of only four level-two Certified Cicerones in the state. And he snipped out the nugget on why Moth owner Shannon Wynne ended the names of his first restaurants and clubs with an “O.” (8-0, Tango, Rio, etc.)

If you are interested in the dirty side of the magazine writing business, take a look at the pdf of the original text with edits  I recovered from the bowels of Tim’s computer. (Note: what look like typos and space problems are  mostly quirky MAC to PC random symbols and letters.) Hurry, I don’t know how long this post will be live. I’m sure Timmy will be along soon to chop it down.

I am adding: Oh, my head!

A couple of nights ago, I set out to revisit Villa-O in Travis Walk. It was a lovely evening and we decided to join the throngs and thongs on the patio. I admit I wasn’t feeling well. The high pollen counts in Dallas have me feeling like my veins are filled with slowly solidifying cement. Which leads me to a little (cue the violins) problem food critics encounter when they have sinusitis–dead palates. Your olfactory senses shut down and everything tastes like pulp.

So, I am sitting at Villa-O with a dead palate and a headache and thinking it just wouldn’t be right for me to critique the food or wine. We order anyway because the people watching is delicious. I might even break my code and say, “The people watching was succulent.” (I hate that word.)

Jump off a bridge with me.

As a supposedly spicy sausage and peppers mixed into as supposedly spicy penne puttanesca fell tasteless on my tongue, I admired the crazy mix of clientele. Lots of SMU sorority types, more SMU geek-y types, and even more young chicks  in cheap sparkly  summer tops and tight pants. Oh, it was free food night! Silly me. Villa-O has a free entrée deal on Monday nights. No wonder the poor college kids were out.

However, there was oh so much more: Gaily dressed gays  (dude, LOVE the yellow linen jacket and lavender shirt combo!), geezers from the Park Cities (how did they get that wheel chair through that revolving door!), and sockless slick Willy’s from the Dallas equivalent of Wall Street (cigars on the patio are legal!). Mixed in were Indians, Middle-Easterners, and Germans. I even spotted a very thin Mico Rodriquez, former M Crowd CEO, wandering around the room. Last I heard, Mr. Rodriquez was working with the Villa-O team so perhaps that is why he was shouting with someone on his cell phone.

So, if you are looking for someplace to people watch, I highly recommend Villa-O. The food? I can’t honestly tell you. Were you there Monday? Did you watch me? I was the one with her head on the table and the Sangiovese drip stuck in my arm.

This dude is crazy!

Good lord have mercy on my wicked soul. Chef Matthew “Fingers of TIE Flurry” Antonovich blew back into Dallas a few months ago with a long load of bull. In particular, a stream of wordy releases boasting his 12,000-square-foot Thai Steakhouse and club located “just a drive by the Arts, the American Airlines Event Center, Dallas World Trade Center and Dallas Market.”

First he claimed his concept would be in the most exciting neighborhood in Dallas. Then he hinted it would be near Highland Ranch. WHOOPSIE, he meant Highland Park.

Then POOF! He disappeared. The guy who boasted “God bless the recession I have found great deals on equipment, designers and food service experts hungry to put Dallas back on the map of best restaurants in America” just went away. His Twitter feed went dark. My inquisitive e-mails? Unanswered.

Hark! I found him. According to Louisvillemojo.com:

A new restaurant to be named Antonovich’s Tuscan Grille could open in the old Ferd Grisanti’s restaurant (12112 Taylorsville Road) as early as Derby Eve. If Matthew Antonovich and building owners Greg and Vince Grisanti can seal a deal, the “upscale casual” restaurant would serve freshly prepared Tuscan fare for lunch, dinner and private parties. Its Enoteca Wine Bar, complete with a wood-burning pizza oven, would also serve a social hub for the later-night 40 to 55 year-old crowd. To imagine it properly, Antonovich said to consider an amalgam of Jack’s Lounge, Mama Grisanti and Casa Grisanti.

More, could be here. Oh, what a lunatic.

Teresa Gubbins weighs in before she starts The Restaurant Critic’s Diet.

Wow. Just when you think the whole world is one big hateful blog, something nice happens and you can almost believe that not everyone is an evil, mean person. Last week several very evil and mean people left comments under my Life of a Restaurant Critic post. I deleted most of them. HOWEVER, just a few minutes ago, I noticed this comment from “Luniz”:

The only way Nancy registers 170 is if TG is standing on her shoulders. And that might even be a stretch.

Luniz, you are the wind beneath my wings. So, the truth is out: I weigh 100 and Gubbins is a mere 70 pounds. Brenner, are you reading? Spill it, chica.