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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.