When we first rolled into Havre de Grace — still road-weary, still slightly traumatized by twelve hours and roughly 790 miles of interstate — I did what any reasonable transplant does. I asked somebody what the local food was like. What flavors defined this place. What I should be eating.
The answer came back without a moment’s hesitation.
“Old Bay,” they said. “Old Bay is what Maryland tastes like.”
I laughed. I assumed that was a punchline. It was not a joke. It was a geographical, cultural, and apparently spiritual statement of fact.
Y’all love some Old Bay up here. In just four months of living here, I have seen Old Bay on pizza. I have seen Old Bay milkshakes. I have seen Old Bay on popcorn, on potato chips, on things that I am fairly certain were never meant to receive seasoning of any kind. If Maryland had a state religion, the can would be on the altar. If there were a Maryland flag for your spice rack — and honestly, I’m surprised there isn’t — it would be Old Bay, seasoned, sauced, and sprinkled across every surface from the Susquehanna to the Chesapeake. Y’all use Old Bay the way the South uses gravy. At some restaurants, it’s sitting there on the table with the salt and pepper.
Back home in Georgia, Old Bay existed. It was not unknown. But it lived in your grandmother’s cabinet, wedged between the cream of tartar she bought in 1987 and the dried parsley nobody has touched since. She pulled it out exactly once, for one specific recipe, and then it went back in the cabinet until the next time that recipe came around. Because in the South, Old Bay is one soldier in a very large army. We have seasoning arsenals down there. We have dry rubs and wet rubs and spice blends that have been passed down through families like heirlooms. We season things with intention, with layers, with deep convictions about what a particular piece of meat deserves.
I say all of this as politely as I know how, and yes, I was aware of this when we decided to move here: the food here is a little bland. Not bad. Not inedible. Just… mild. Gentle. Understated. I think if some of my Maryland neighbors were to sit down at a few fine dining establishments in the South they might come home with a new appreciation for what a full spice rack can do. There is a whole world of flavor out there beyond the Old Bay horizon, and it is worth exploring.
The Woman Who Shares My Name, has been on an increasingly determined search for nachos that can hold their own against the ones we left behind. She has not found them. She is beginning to lose hope. remain supportive, though I will admit that every time we try a new place and the nachos arrive, I can read the verdict on her face before she says a word. Most of the time the nachos can’t even arrive. They aren’t as much of a thing here. The search continues.
My own quest has been for hot wings.
I have been hunting great hot wings since the day we arrived
Got a minute? Got a story.
The first time I ordered hot wings here, I was not reading the menu as carefully as I should have been. I ordered what the restaurant called hot wings. What arrived in front of me was a plate of wings seasoned heavily — and I do mean heavily — with Old Bay.
Now, don’t get me wrong They were good, and I was fine with it because I was getting a taste of the local cuisine. Old Bay wings have their merits and I am not here to slander them. But I would not classify Old Bay as a spicy seasoning. It has a slight kick, But heat? Spice? That burn that makes your mouth water before you put it in your mouth? That is not what Old Bay brings to the table. Calling Old Bay wings “hot wings” is like calling a ceiling fan an air conditioner. It moves the air around pleasantly, but it is not the same thing.
In my ongoing search for actual hot wings, I have now sampled four distinct and equally disappointing categories. There were the Old Bay wings, which were good but not what I expected. There were the wings advertised as hot that were not actually hot by any measurable standard. There were the wings that had genuine heat but absolutely no flavor, and there were the wings that had neither heat nor flavor, which is a culinary achievement of a particularly discouraging kind. I’m a seasoned wing hunter, you might say, and the season has not been kind.
I am from the land that invented Lemon Pepper chicken wings. I have high expectations of wings that seem to be a few bars higher than much of the population of my new home state.
That said, I am learning to embrace Old Bay. I want to try it in chili. I want to try it on mashed potatoes. I am willing to see where this goes. But I’m concerned about inviting people over for dinner? Will we accidentally serve something that is supposed to include Old Bay and doesn’t? Will we accidentally use a spice our new friends despise?
Also, if any of you could point me to the best wing joint in the Harford County area, I’d be much obliged. I’m beginning to think I may need to travel to Virginia to get my wing fix.