Duffy’s Irish Pub
Picture this: It’s nearly 10 o’clock on a Saturday night at Duffy’s, and after three Dave Matthews Band numbers pour out of the jukebox, I’m listening to four drunk girls belt out the Counting Crows. A fifth joins the chorus, and “Mr. Jones” is pounded into my eardrums like a rusty nail. Weekend drinkers stand three deep at the bar, many pre-partying for a show at the 9:30 Club. They order shots with more enthusiasm than beer; they make me think I should have stayed in tonight. So why am I out, when I’d obviously rather be at home on my couch with a Budweiser? Put simply: Duffy’s wings are that fucking good. The sauce leans heavily on some flavor components Andy Duffy won’t divulge, achieving an addictive flavor profile reminiscent of Doritos—it seems that garlic powder is somehow in the mix. New flavors have been added to the menu, including barbecue and Asian renditions that also hit their mark. Sauces aside, the real stars here are the wings themselves. Plump and juicy, they’ve been fried up perfectly nearly every time I’ve ordered them. It’s a level of consistency I rarely see in bar food, and it’s the reason I continuously return when I’m having a wings craving—even if it’s amateur hour.