New York has plenty of food legends, but few inspire devotion quite like a plate of wings done right. In Buffalo, the journey leads to Anchor Bar, where the air carries vinegar heat and the room hums with quiet certainty. The fryer keeps time, orders repeat themselves, and first timers clock the confidence immediately.
This is not nostalgia for its own sake. It is continuity, practiced daily, with a flavour memory that refuses to fade.
Across New York, people plan routes around that memory. Wings arrive crisp, sauced with restraint, and eaten with focus rather than flourish. Conversation pauses, napkins disappear, and patience feels justified…