Andy Young: Humiliation with a capital B

By Andy Young

I’ve never earned a paycheck as a butcher, baker, sous chef, dietician or short order cook. Consequently, I have no special knowledge about nutrition, not to mention any professional experience preparing, cooking, presenting or serving food. In retrospect, perhaps I should have kept that in mind before opening my mouth some years ago when I heard someone blabbing about a certain edible item.

I had joined a group of friends and acquaintances at a local sports bar. One of the latter, a serial center-of-attention-craver who loved eating nearly as much as he did boasting about himself and embellishing his supposed myriad accomplishments, was raving about some “Buffalo wings” he was consuming. I tried listening respectfully to his tiresome discourse, occasionally murmuring in faux agreement and even nodding when it seemed appropriate. But when it appeared he wasn’t planning on stopping, I decided enough was enough.

After checking to make sure it wasn’t April Fools’ Day, I decided to shut down our verbose, attention-hogging pal by bringing up a verifiable fact that would mercifully end emphatically conclude his ongoing harangue.

Trying (though not terribly hard) not to seem smug or condescending, I blurted, “Buffalos don’t have wings, ____________!” (I’ll leave the term I addressed him with to the imagination, since some might consider it inappropriate for inclusion in a family publication.)

Momentarily flustered by my interruption, the speaker paused, presumably staggered by the superbly timed zinger I had just launched his way. That self-important braggart had been holding court for what I, and presumably everyone else, felt was far too long. Now everyone was staring at me. Suddenly I had become the center of attention.

Full disclosure: I’ll admit that for the briefest fraction of a second, I found myself bathing in approval, enjoying what I assumed were the appreciative and admiring stares of my grateful peers.

But the silence my clever quip had evoked continued for what seemed a bit too long. (Looking back, maybe everyone there was checking to make sure it wasn’t April Fools’ Day.) Then I noticed the gazes of my companions morphing from admiration to incredulous. It was apparent I had committed some significant faux pas.

Panic set in, followed by full-blown paranoia. Had I forgotten to zip my fly on my return from the men’s room? Was there something unsightly hanging out of one of my nostrils? Had I inadvertently worn a pink shirt to an establishment where all 15 TV sets were tuned to football games, truck pulls, or professional wrestling?

My mistake became obvious when the blowhard I thought I had shut down triumphantly retorted, “They’re called Buffalo wings because they were invented in Buffalo, New York, ______________.” Irony of ironies, he had expertly employed the ultimate weapon to humiliate me: the very same derogatory term I had used on him just seconds earlier. The difference: he had used it far more accurately.

I spent the rest of the evening brooding silently, responding only when one of my now all-too-jovial chums referred to me with one of several new nicknames, including “Buffalo Boy,” Buffalo Bill,” and, most insultingly, “Buffalo Chip.”

Fate can be awfully cruel sometimes. If that big-mouthed egotist in our group had only mentioned any other food that began with B, I’d never have suffered through that horrible night of humiliation. Why couldn’t he have been holding forth about beans, blueberries, butter, bass, baby back ribs, bacon, bagels, burritos, baklava, beer, bologna, bread, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, bok choy, Baked Alaska, beets, bananas, burgers, buns, beef stew, or even Vitamin B?

Hmmmmm.

I wonder if Vitamin B was named after Buffalo.

Correction: In last week’s column I incorrectly stated that no one born in the 1950s has ever been president or vice-president of the United States.. Thankfully though, several alert readers pointed out the inaccuracy, noting that Mike Pence, who was vice-president from 2017 to 2021, was born on June 7, 1959. The error was mine. However, in my defense, Mr. Pence is pretty easy to forget. <