Football Sunday. Lil’ impromptu gathering over on Elliott Drive. Feeling that the day called for fistfuls of protein and exotic sauces, I bopped down to WingsOver-Lowell to grab a B-17 Bomber. Easy Peasy. The only problem was that now I had to figure out a flavor for 60 pieces of chicken. Tough to do. So many variables to consider. Spicy, sweet, buffalo…what level buffalo?!?! I agonized over this for solid 30 minutes before picking up the phone.
What was the verdict? It didn’t matter because apparently I already blew the order when I didn’t grab boneless wings. The overwhelming majority of my football viewing cohorts confirmed that only cavemen and Les Stroud eat chicken on a bone. This blew my mind. I’m not saying my palette is more refined than the next guy, but I do have five seasons of Top Chef under my belt, so yeah, my palette is more refined than the next guy. Ignoring the fact that bone-in almost always guarantees flavor and tenderness, bone-in wins strictly on convenience…you only have one hand, assuming a beer is occupying the other. Nobody wants to be that loser at the football party asking for silverware. It’s debatable whether a napkin is even needed.
I’m pretty sure I’m right on this matter, but I’m curious what our Cabot readers have to offer? Bone-in or out?
Sons of Franky Cabot 
Bone in. Always. But then again, I’m a proud half a caveman.
Bone-in. Duh!
Who are these uncouth heathens that you call friends? Wings with no-bone are chicken tenders.
It’s bone in and not even close. If I wanted boneless I’d go to Demoulas.
Wings over Lowell is a staple at our house. It’s too easy not to call and get an in-game delivery.
And we always get both, but I do know that bone-in is really the only way to know if you’re actually eating a wing.
Bone in…your friends are weird. They deserve a visit from the Poopetrator.
Closest to the bone, Sweeter is the meat