Tour de Wings of the Springs: Two men journey to find the best goddamn wings in town

The undisputed victor: Firehouse wings

Springtime has rolled into our neck of the woods and there is no better way to enjoy its homecoming than with some barbecue and beers in the sunshine. Last Wednesday, while destroying a plate of wings over bluegrass at Front Range BBQ, we, as a half-drunk confederacy of Catalyst writers, decided it was high time to embark on a search to find some fire in the form of chicken wings. We now refer to our journalistic investigation as the Tour de Wings of the Springs. What resulted was a strung-out week-long carnivorous wing binge — taking our standard eighth block hangovers to the next hell-fired pitch.

For us wing enthusiasts, BBQ is an affirmation of animalism. It is a shared celebration of barbaric livelihood; it’s like breaking bread, but more like ripping flesh. Picking up a wing and viciously stripping the meat with our teeth is something that helps us reconnect with our primal side. Drinking beer and shooting the shit with friends is peachy, but when you’re fighting to see through your burning eyeballs, camaraderie takes the backseat. It becomes more of a personal battle than a shared culinary experience. To the meat eater, devouring a plate of wings is an observance of the religious holiday we call life. It heats up the blood and shows our power over the leafy vegans that preach their all-life-is-sacred mantra at any given opportunity.

Starting that night, we began critiquing our appetizers beyond the usual seal of “dankness” as our mouths dripped with hot-sauce and bleu cheese dressing. We soon learned there is more to a plate of hot wings than the immediate gratification of a boneyard staring up at you in dismembered contempt. 

Chasing wings with glass after glass of water (BUDWEISER) became our nightly existence. The feeling of our bloodstreams turning into Tabasco was our calling; we were waist-deep in wing. However, before we could provide an honest representation of the wings we would eat, it was important to distill the experience down to its fundamental parts.

A real hot wing should be felt throughout your body. A stack of soggy limp wings cluttering a cardboard Domino’s box doesn’t penetrate beyond your taste buds and, later, your unforgiving intestines. You know you’re digging into a real wing when you can taste the chicken, savor the crispy blend of fried skin and hot sauce that goes above and beyond Frank’s Red Hot. You feel the heat in all your appendages — your face melts, your tears are acidic, your ears feel sunburnt and your toes bake your Birkenstocks to 350 degrees. It is a nonstop train ride from the moment you sit down and order your wings to the moment of expulsion. 

We had some basic principles of base-line quality before beginning our masochistic pilgrimage. We can all agree that wings should be served by the dozen, with a meager accoutrement consisting of celery and carrots. Bleu cheese and ranch should always accompany the wing, regardless of personal taste. Wings without these things are like flannel shirts with snapping buttons. Real cowboys know snaps are part of a song, not a shirt. It’s just wrong. The other integral part of a comprehensive wing-related experience is beer. Cheap, cold, American beer. Goddamnit.

The Firehouse (817 W. Colorado Ave)

Driving through Old Colorado City we discovered the hidden gem that is The Firehouse. It doesn’t get much more American than a restaurant littered with fireman paraphernalia, black and red checkered tablecloths (resembling a Sunday family picnic), a firepit outside for between-course cig breaks and a happy hour extending from 2 to 6 p.m. Upon our inaugural entry, we told our waiter, Pete, that the only BBQ we had eaten in the Springs was at Front Range. “Front Range is garbage,” he said. I don’t completely agree with him, but I enjoyed the grub and the vibe as the hours I spent at the Firehouse became my Friday pre-game.

While the habitat at Firehouse isn’t as hippied-out as the standard CC BBQ stomping grounds, we settled well. You know you’re at a restaurant committed to their BBQ when the standard folded napkin is replaced by a roll of paper towels at every table. The sign out front is a fair omen to what will soon commence in your stomach—a blaze that can only be trumped by the Hayman Fire. $2 Budweisers chased the steam down our esophagi. If you’re really looking to be classy, 20 oz micro-brews are on tap for $4. 

To top it all off, every day from open to close you can gorge yourself on all-you-can-eat ribs for $13.99. But for us, the real treat came as a complete surprise to Team Wing—half-off all appetizers every Friday. That means for $4.99 we got an entire pound of wings. Multiply that by two, toss in some potato skins and we had our Friday afternoon snack.

Firehouse’s menu is extensive to say the least. Everyday there is a different special ranging from half-off appetizers to all-you-can-eat catfish. While I can’t attest to their entrees, I can tell you that their wings are the best hunks of blistering chicken I’ve ever had. The menu suggests three options: hot, mild, or BBQ. However, what isn’t denoted in print are the Joe’s Firehouse Wings. While the difference between Joe’s and the hot is subtle, it is fierce. Diced, raw habañeros coat the standard piping hot sauce. At times, a habañero bomb will stop you dead in your tracks. “I told my Mexican cook to make ‘em real hot for you guys,” Pete said as we ordered our third round of drinks. Cold beer doesn’t last long in the presence of the raw-power habañero peppers. 

While we acted like 16-year-olds stoned for their first time due to the sheer ecstasy of conquering wing after wing, I realized I had been staring at the fiery flesh in my hand for a solid minute. I dove in at my last wing, spitting tears resembling battery acid, and tossed the bone down in a triumph that can only be compared to knocking Muhammed Ali out with a single punch to the dome. Before leaving Pete reflected on our expedition. “Nothing wrong with fucking phenomenal,” he responded to Ben’s assessment of their grub.

My end conclusion: two thumbs pointed at the heavens for feeling 16-year-old stoned for the first time in half a decade at The Firehouse. Make the stop the next time you’re itching for a fiery fix. -Rich

We were intrigued by a barbecue spot called “Joe’s Smokehouse” up the road from the Firehouse on Colorado Ave. Its awning was nearly identical to the Firehouse’s, and if appearances had taught us anything, it was that we could trust a restaurant that rocked flames on their façade. Boy, were we wrong. As we pulled up to the restaurant it became clear that we were not in the right place. The entrance was barred and as we peered into the building we learned that this restaurant was just somebody’s home. We thought it could just be a take-out spot, so we knocked, but there was no answer. In the interest of time, wings, and all things right in the world, we decided to try our luck downtown.

Will’s Sports Bar (424 S. Nevada Ave)

Will’s was a departure from the cozy home-style barbecue restaurants we had been to thus far. It is a sports bar advertised as “in the Cheers tradition.” We didn’t encounter Kelsey Grammer or any campy 80s style shenanigans, but it was close enough. The bar itself is what you’d expect. A few tables lined the main floor adjacent to the bar, there was a lonely jukebox and plasma screen TVs sported ESPN highlight reels. The regulars lined the bar and were shooting the shit as we, the fresh fish, took our proper seats at a table and promptly threw in our order. Budweiser was $3 a bottle and the wings were five cents short of $10. We decided on the standard hot and BBQ flavors but decided to mix things up a bit with teriyaki wings. 

At this point we were worn down from our journeys. Our intestines were lined with various sauces and wing debris. It was becoming a grueling and painful task to eat chicken. We sacked up and quietly consumed 36 meat sticks. Although the hot and barbecue wings weren’t anything special, it was clear that they had the basics down. The chicken was plump and tasty, the sauce was copiously splattered across each plate, and the skin was fried to a heart-slowing degree. The hot wings would have been spicy if you can consider Tabasco to be a knockout punch. However, they did their job in regards to the burning tongue factor. We weren’t particularly steeped at the idea of a full-on meltdown again, so maybe it was for the best. Surprisingly, the teriyaki wings took the cake as the best wings we devoured at Will’s. It was a relieving change of pace from the scorching tradition we were smothered in at this point. They were tasty without being overly sweet (as most teriyaki wings are wont to be) and offered a cooling break for our suffering stomachs.

Our verdict? Will’s sets the bar for completely standard wings. Although this may sound like a slight against them, it is actually hard to make a great baseline wing. If you’re looking for a comfortable local bar to infiltrate in the Springs, Will’s may be the place you’re seeking: a relatively low-key environment, standard rates on beer and deliciously normal wings. -Ben

Jack Quinn’s Pub (21 N. Tejon St)

On Wednesday nights, many Colorado College hump-day victims can be found sloppily littering this establishment. It is a fairly large pub, spattered with booths, bar seats and tables for rowdier crowds. Dimly lit on most nights, Quinn’s is a favorite local spot known for its whiskey selection and late-night bar food. Although they are usually low on wait staff, they manage to appease a slew of drunken college kids on any given night. Wednesdays are their busiest day; $4 will get you an Irish Car Bomb or, more importantly, a large plate of chicken wings. 

Our first trip to Jack Quinn’s was unsuccessful. Last Sunday we were fiending for some fiery hot-winged goodness and decided it was high time to see what Jack Quinn’s had to offer. Upon our arrival our waitress informed us that they had sold out of wings. We were crushed. Existence is an important quality for a chicken wing to have, perhaps the most important. Though our hearts yearned for chicken, but we were only able to drown our sorrows in beer. However, in the interest of our fellow students, we decided to go back and finish what we started.

Although cold Bud had accompanied every round of wings thus far, the allure of Irish Car Bombs (or the alcoholic’s milkshake) was too enticing to resist. We decided to mix things up a bit in the realm of flavor. Jack Quinn’s offers their “Celtic Wings” in Guinness BBQ, Whiskey Maple, and Buffalo Hot. We had them mix sauces for us and wound up with a plate of Whiskey Maple Hot Wings and a plate of Guinness BBQ Hot Wings. $4 for a heaping plate of meat is a hard deal to beat anywhere. One wouldn’t expect a high-caliber wing for that price. However, upon first taste, we were promptly sent into a face-melting frenzy.

The wings were perfectly sauced and cooked. The chicken was juicy, the skin just crispy enough, and the flavor was damn near the best we had tasted. The sweetness of the Whiskey Maple wing was subdued by the heat of the hot sauce, creating a perfect balance of sweet and spicy. The smoky barbecue flavor was drawn out to a sultry degree when combined with the hot sauce. The BBQ hot wings were everything I always want in a standard BBQ wing: flavorful heat. It’s also important to mention that Quinn’s had the best ranch and bleu cheese dressings of any place we attended. It was not just a buffer between our tongues and the inevitability of oral desecration; it was a tasty treat to dip our meaty prize in. Our verdict? When Quinn’s has the wings in stock, they rest in the top tier of the Mighty Kingdom of Wings. They are, in all likelihood, the best way to spend four dollars. Excluding tall boys. - Ben

Front Range Barbecue (2330 W. Colorado Ave)

Front Range is clearly the spot that most CC kids have the skinny on. Due to the growing presence of a bluegrass community on campus, Front Range has blown up as a place for heady heads to get their grub, drink, and dance on any given day of the week. The wait staff is absolutely gorgeous, and the authentic soul food décor that litters the inside is as inviting as $3 pints of Bristol Beer on Wednesdays. What seals the deal is the musical community that plays alongside food enthusiasts like us. On most nights, some bluegrass or blues band plays alongside patrons, completing the trifecta of great barbecue: food, music, and beer. Spatially, the restaurant is divided into three sections: the inside eatery, the bar, and a patio outside that rests against a small stage. As far as ambiance goes, Front Range has the BBQ aesthetic down to a T.

The entrées served nightly are large, relatively cheap and completely filling. The ribs (if you have not dabbled) are righteous. At this point, I should get off my chest that I am under the belief there are two types of eaters: those who understand the importance of ribs in the larger scheme of humanity, and godless bastards. You can guess which side of the line Team Wing falls on. Get the dry-rub, because their sauces (sweet and spicy BBQ, mustard wine, hot barbecue) are absurdly delicious. Experimentation is crucial. We had dined on entrees many a time before, but were swinging in the direction of wings and beer. We threw in our order 15 minutes prior to the kitchen closing. Up to bat? Sweet and spicy BBQ, and good old-fashioned tangy hot wings. Other flavors include Mustard Wine BBQ, Teriyaki and Original BBQ. $6.95 will get you 10 wings, $13.50 will bump you up to 20.

Although intoxication doesn’t usually facilitate a slow eating and evaluating process, Team Wing did our best. The sauces were fairly unfuckwithable and made a good dipping sauce for the accompanying french fries. The quality of chicken didn’t hold up against the other places we had eaten, but the sauce more than made up for the lack of super-juicy fowl. Maybe it was a combination of the beer in our bellies and the overwhelmingly attractive waitresses sporting black skirts, but the overall experience was gratifying in every way. These were the wings that soon launched a thousand shits. -Ben

Wingstop (1914 Southgate Rd)

Be prepared to stop dead in your tracks if you decide to investigate this chain wings joint. While I try to avoid the CC cliché of not eating at chain restaurants, Wingstop is one that I will not frequent again. It’s the housewives swag of hot wings—it may fix your craving but it will leave you with a fierce “headache.” Park outside of the Southgate strip mall and succumb to the trashy scene that only Colorado Springs can host. While I describe many Springs restaurants as a drop of honey in a bottle of poison, the wings here will drop a fatal dose of venom into your digestive tract.

Don’t even consider this an option for any sort of sit-down outing. Shock Top, Bud Light and Michelob Amber are your only beer options. While I pledge my relentless support for the all-too-often scorned mass-produced beers, it is a sin against mankind to not have a single full-flavored beer on tap.

However, Wingstop does have a tarnished silver lining to its cumulous-nimbus cloud. Their menu boasts nine flavors: Atomic, Cajun, Original Hot, Mild, Hickory Smoked BBQ, Lemon Pepper, Garlic Parmesan, Hawaiian and Teriyaki. Options are always appreciated and their prices are fair—we ate 35 wings for $23. Team Wing chose to give our scrutiny to Atomic, Hickory Smoked BBQ and Lemon Pepper wings. 

Atomic was true to its name in the worst of ways. Hot BBQ is a deli I cherish but it should be felt through the whole body. These slimy wings leave your mouth a flame and nothing more. Your eyes won’t water and, while milk may sooth the tongue, it won’t even begin to settle your stomach. Days later, I still felt the nuclear blast while at the Rockies game—making Chernobyl look like child’s play.

Hickory Smoked BBQ takes second place in our Wingstop outing. It wasn’t hot by any means but I do enjoy a solid, well-flavored hot wing. We chose to alternate between Atomic and Hickory Smoked BBQ to throw water on the raging hell fire. They took Satan down a peg and I can’t help but admit that I enjoyed these wings. Bland by nature but, once in a blue moon, that’s a-OK by me.

Lemon Pepper was my favorite of the Chainstop batch we trialed. Unfortunately I enjoyed these wings so much they disappeared first. The lemon was a unique cut, and who doesn’t love pepper. Devoid of an abundance of sauce to weigh down the meat, Lemon Pepper was Wingstop’s saving grace. 

My conclusion: Lemon Pepper is a solid wing. But Wingstop is a shaky establishment, with poor beer choices and hot wings that will haunt you throughout the workweek. Imagine a multi-pitched hangover without the benefits of the night before. –Rich

The Tour de Wings was a journey of self-discovery, relentless barbaric meat-binging and a cracked-out wing fetish gone wild. Team Wing ultimately came to understand that appreciating wings is a rollercoaster that drops below the taste buds. The final rankings are as follows. 

First, the Firehouse. This is our number-one stop and we plan to return as soon as a plate of hot wings doesn’t strike a cord of angst in our hearts. The overwhelming quality of chicken and cheapness of beer firmly place The Firehouse on a platinum pedestal at the Tour de Wings commencement.

Second and third place are a toss-up between Jack Quinn’s and Front Range BBQ. While the quality at J.Q’s is superior to Front Range due to the option of incestual sauce, there is something to be said regarding Front Range’s ambiance. Bluegrass Music, BBQ, beer selection and friendly wait-staff are integral to the comprehensive wing experience.

We throw fourth place out to Will’s Sports Pub. They are standard in regards to the sports bar scene as a whole. Although their hot wings are good, they don’t occupy any space in our cerebral cortexes.

Fifth and final place is reluctantly given to Wingstop. Lemon Pepper was not enough to repent for the satanic Atomic wings that haunted our mornings, afternoons and nights for days to come. This is the only place we would not suggest exploring unless cheap wings and wack beer is your prerogative.

Eating hot wings for five of seven dinners in a week is not something we recommend to the faint hearted. Rich adamantly refused to accompany the trip to Jack Quinn’s on Wednesday due to a compromised digestive system and sheer intolerance for BBQ. While Ben stayed true to task and saw the bloody battle through to the end, he ultimately regrets his last supper. It was a journey that strengthened the bonds of friendship and weakened the bonds of a healthy nutritional pyramid. Protein and grease need to be met with more than celery and carrots. Man cannot survive on wing alone—but we wish we could.