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This is the thing about chicken wings. You can geek out on them, like Mr. Reynolds and the cast of connoisseurs who joined him on his trip across New York state, having intense debates about whether a wing can truly be called a Buffalo wing if there’s blue cheese mixed into the sauce instead of in a dish on the side.

Or you can also just drunkenly shove them in your face by the pound.

Over their 50-year existence (one origin story — though it is disputed — has the owners of Buffalo’s Anchor Bar receiving an accidental shipment of chicken wings from their meat supplier, deciding to make the best of it by tossing them in the deep fryer and dousing them in hot sauce, vinegar and butter) wings have transformed from a virtually worthless butcher’s byproduct into one of the hottest items on North American menus.

The urban hipster who’s way too into craft beer will line up at a food truck for a plate. Middle-aged suburbanites order them up by the basket at their neighbourhood Applebee’s. They’re served with tandoori or Korean glaze at Asian fusion restaurants. They’re at pizza joints. At those trendy bistros with the small plates. And, obviously, at sports bars, they reign supreme.

That the wing, or at least what we slather it with, hits so many of the flavour notes we crave is what makes it such a singular equalizer across cuisine and class.

What grew from a loss leader for local pub nights, has become a gastronomic segment in and of itself, worth billions of dollars a year and spawning entire brand concepts, while occasionally creating shortage shocks throughout the poultry industry. Chicken wings appeal to sports fans. They appeal to gluten-free dieters. And they appeal to foodie moms who bake them into quinoa bites and lasagna, and post pictures of the results on Pinterest.