Buffalo Wild Wings: Where “Extra Wet” Means “Extra Regret”

 

I’ve waited for things that never came—closure, personal growth, my Amazon package—but I didn’t think I’d be adding wing sauce to the list. Nothing quite prepares you for the ritualistic betrayal of ordering “extra wet” wings from Buffalo Wild Wings.

Let me set the scene: you open the app, full of misguided optimism. You pick your sauce, maybe even two if you're feeling bold. And then you look—searching for the sacred checkbox, that blessed "extra wet" option, the one that separates real wings from culinary sandpaper. But guess what? It's not there. No checkbox. No comment box. Not even a sad little “special instructions” field where you can beg for dignity. Buffalo Wild Wings doesn’t just ignore your preferences—they’ve actively firewalled them out. Like they got tired of disappointing people the normal way and decided to automate it.

And if you make the mistake of going in-person? Oh, they'll gladly charge you for extra sauce. Ring it up with a straight face like you're buying actual product. And then—nothing. Your wings come out drier than a Mormon prom. It’s like ordering a drink, paying full price, and then getting handed the concept of hydration. You ask where the extra sauce went and suddenly the whole staff catches collective amnesia like it’s a side dish.

At this point, asking for “extra wet” at Buffalo Wild Wings is like asking your emotionally unavailable dad for a hug: technically possible, but guaranteed to end in disappointment and some weird ranch on the side.

Every time I order from them, I expect wings that are dripping in flavor, saucy like a Southern grandma, the kind of meal that stains your shirt and your dignity. Instead? I get poultry that feels like it spent two weeks in a food dehydrator in Chernobyl. These wings are so dry they qualify as emotional labor. If I wanted something that sucked all the moisture out of my body, I’d just text my ex.

And don’t even get me started on the upcharge. They hit you with that “extra wet” fee like they’re bottling unicorn tears. You’d think the sauce was being harvested from the last surviving buffalo in the Himalayas, hand-milked by monks. But no, what you get is a sad, lukewarm chunk of overcooked meat with maybe a whisper of flavor—like the ghost of sauce passed by your wing on its way to someone who mattered.

At this point, I don’t even think they own sauce. I think there’s one guy in the back with a paintbrush and a bottle of Frank’s, doing interpretive art on your wings. The whole place is like the Hooters of flavor: it promises excitement, but you leave ashamed, hungry, and $30 poorer.

Their idea of “wet” is apparently just sending your food out while someone in the kitchen cries quietly behind the fryer.

Buffalo Wild Wings markets itself like it’s the mecca of wing culture. In reality? It’s a sports bar for people who think seasoning is a liberal conspiracy. You don’t go there for the food—you go there because the bar was full and your standards were lower than your sodium levels.

So if you’re craving wings that taste like rejection and regret, by all means—order “extra wet” from B-Dubs. But don’t be surprised when what you get is nothing more than a dried-out therapy session served in a cardboard coffin.

Final Rating: 2 stars—one for the illusion of sauce, one for the audacity.