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God, I love Buffalo wings. Since moving to London over a decade ago, I’ve rarely touched anything deep-fried, but the moment the jet’s landing gear opens over Philly International, I’m drooling at the thought of Philly cheese steaks, nachos and Buffalo wings. Don’t get me wrong, Britain has much to offer on the subject of tasty ways to clog your arteries, but to paraphrase Bill Bryson, we Americans like our food to practically squirt when we bite into it, and fish n’ chips just doesn’t quite cut it.
When I first moved here, I heard lots of lame jokes on the subject of my beloved chicken cast-offs (“I didn’t know buffaloes could fly, hur hur” is only second to even lamer jokes about my state of origin: “Pennsylvania? Are you a vampire? Isn’t that where pencils come from?” etc). They are, of course, named for their city of origin, Buffalo, NY, concocted by a restauranteur sometime in the mid-1960s to satisfy the salty-spicy-meaty cravings of a crowd of late-night drinkers. I could happily eat them for breakfast.
Not Great British Food - Great Made-in-America Italian Food.
My Italian-American family has these at Christmas every year. They’re probably the thing I miss most at Christmas (aside from my family of course). These are apparently an Italian finger-food but I’m not sure how authentic the recipe is. It’s one of my favourite things ever though. Mom makes tons of these ahead of time, freezes them and reheats on Christmas Eve.
We always used a homemade Italian sausage from one of the numerous family-owned supermarkets in Old Forge, Pa – Rossi’s on Main St at the top of Taroli St was the usual. Italian sausage is a little crumblier than the Taste The Difference types you get in Sainsbury’s, but that’s probably more do do with the hand-mincing than by actual design. If I’m really stuck I just get a good quality plain pork sausage and season the meat with fennel seeds, garlic, oregano, crushed chili flakes and black pepper.
