Perhaps you’ve heard that the Innuit language has 37 words for the various states of “snow.” I have no idea if this is myth or truth. I learned it in the context that human beings assign narrowly defined distinctions to things we hold most dear, yet we have only one word for “love” in the English language to describe all the ways people are capable of loving.

Another cultural mythoid holds that South Pacific islanders belch after eating to express satisfaction with their meal, and gratitude to the person who cooked it. This leads me to wonder how restaurant critics on those islands write reviews. Are there 37 words for “belch?”

(This is what happens when the mind is allowed to wander unsupervised instead of writing about the wonderful Peking duck we enjoyed at Lu Din Gee Cafe in San Gabriel last Saturday. A review with photos is coming, I promise)

Before you and your Samoan linebacker and/or restaurant-reviewer brothers get your panties all in a bundle, let’s make clear I’m just playin’ here…

We went skiing in Park City, Utah last week only to find ourselves unpreparedly in the midst of the Sundance Festival, which seemed more L.A. than L.A.: film geeks and wannabes everywhere talking endlessly about themselves.

So at noon, we escaped to a terrific old bar called the No Name Saloon because you can’t drink all day unless you start early.

We drank massive, liter steins of delicious, cold beer. I said it was past noon… and we were on vacation… Don’t get all 12 step on me.

What food goes good with that much beer? Sometimes the question is not what’s good food, but what’s the right food. Ideally, your local tavernkeep will run a joint like Santa Monica’s Father’s Office, where the hamburgers are among the best in a town full of great burgers.

But in the absence of really good food, I’ll take really right food. In this case, the No Name served up a righteous basket of fresh fried shoestrings, potato chips, and onion rings. Just greasy enough to keep one’s gullet lubricated for more beer, and starchy enough to fill the stomach and keep me (I mean one) from making an ass out of himself.

Sometimes, though, when the winds and tides align, right food will also be good. Buffalo wings go great with beer, and the best on the planet used to be made in a dive bar called The Rafters in Cortland, NY. We’d head there after work and order a plate of outsized chicken wings that could’ve come off an albatross, or a pterodactyl. George, the owner, would never tell anyone where he sourced his wings, or what he put in his magic sauce. Crunchy, meaty, salty, saucy and custom spiced just for my asbestos palate, George’s wings remain the best I’ve ever tasted. Proving that you can’t go home again, the Rafters is no more, and the puny, pallid wings that most bars sadly serve these days are neither right, nor good. RIP, George, and thanks for everything.