- How René Redzepi Is Giving Back to the Culinary Community in Mexico
- Tyson Cole Takes Tokyo and Hiroshima
- Everything You Need to Know About April Bloomfield's NYC Meat Shop
- Angie Mar Dreams of Ribeye at The Beatrice Inn, Revamped and Opening Today
- At Nixta, Cauliflower Tortillas and Pisco Sours Are on the Menu
- 7 New Restaurants That Defy Culinary Trends
- Where to Eat Detroit-Style Pizza, Outside Detroit
- Team Estela Opens Flora Bar and Flora Coffee Tonight in The Met Breuer
- Toups South Opens with Aaron Franklin’s Smoker and a 160-Year-Old Bar
- Last Call: Alex Raij and Eder Montero Are Making Poole's Diner-Inspired Tapas Tonight
I spent last weekend in Atlantic City, where (nerd alert) my fantasy football league holds its annual draft. One of our many rituals for draft weekend is a late-late-night stop at the Pic-a-lilli Pub (231 S. Tennessee Ave.; 609-344-1113), a garage-size dive hidden in the henge of boardwalk-side hotels, where the bar’s excellent buffalo wings succeed where countless others fail: The sauce is spicy and peppery with a hint of sweetness, and is just thick enough to coat the wings without becoming a sticky shellac. And the wings taste especially amazing when you fear they might be your last meal. On Saturday night (well, Sunday morning), a couple of inebriated non-locals loved their wings so much they asked for a quart of sauce to go. The bartender (a chapfallen, tooth-deprived man with a combination pompadour-mullet, who’s been behind the bar every time I’ve set foot in Pic-a-lilli) explained—with much spittle and obscenity—that the bar doesn’t sell its sauce “a la f***ing carte.”
“But it says so right here on your menu,” Drunk Tourist said.
Oops. Let’s just say Drunk Tourist won’t be returning to the Pic-a-lilli. But, for the record, he was right. According to their menu—which I stole as proof—a quart of Pic-a-lilli sauce will run you $8.50. And no, my initials aren’t D.T.