Let’s start with introductions. We, the authors, are a duo. A partnership. A couple of fun-lovin’ rascals in the 716. We’re a pair of linked particles, a quantum conjoined Cooper-pair, rollicking resistance-free (because it’s frequently cold in the 716!) up and down highways, around and about byways, all over the skyways and the I-one-ninetays. Did I mention the 219? We use that one a lot too, and when we do, frequently on Sundays, we roam these wild streets in search of a certain something which we desire most deeply. From the minute the Sunday sun hits the pillow and the dog has to go out to pee, there smolders a need within us. An urge seeking fulfillment. A craving, a burn, no, a raging fire, which seeks, NO, DEMANDS fuel. And that fuel, you ask? In a word: brunch. What? You have an eatery, but no brunch menu? Well, friend, in a heartbeat we’ll pass you by, on our way to find the angry greasy fix. “Have you gravy?” we ask. Gravy is for the people.

We’re in our mid-40s, but we’re also 10, and as you’ll find out should you stay along for the resistance-free ride, the younger of the pair bears the lioness’ share of the heavy burden we’re attempting to lift. While I do most of the cushy keyboarding, half prone in this desk chair deliberately flaunting the advice of orthopedic professionals spanning multiple continents, she will do nearly all of the tasting required.

“Tasting?” asks the curious mind. “Go on……”

Well, if you were to see the two of us and somehow knew, you telepathic nightmare you, that we wrote a blog critiquing local biscuits and gravy, there’s not a chance you’d guess which of us serves as the designated taste tester. In your creepy, intrusive visions you’d see she, small and sprightly, and I, large and lumbering. She: Boisterous and bouncy. Me: out-of-breath, post-stairs. My last weigh-in came in between 42 and 42.5 tons, standard not metric. She weighs two puppies and a heavy-ish parakeet. Yet it is she, not I, who will do the tasting and the taste reporting. At some point the full story may come out, but some years ago I was diagnosed with celiac disease, so unless we find a whimsical land of potato-starch gravy and tapioca-flour biscuits (deeeelicious!) she will be the taste-buds of record and she will report the news. I will add the superfluous fluff and unorganized banter that the bloggin’-age requires. I will not edit anything in her reporting for any reason whatsoever. I’m not here to shield the public from the harsh tongue of truth. She’s been warned the grammar police on the internet are fiercer than a January storm at the stadium. Her news-reporting will be in italics. Let’s meet her, shall we?

HELLO!!!!! We are going to explore the biscuits and gravy of THE MOST AWSOME CITY EVER, buffalo!!! This partnership will travel ALL over buffalo eating, you guessed it, biscuits and gravy. The mid-4o-year-old is celiac. So, I’m the ONLY one who eats the thing we write about!!! And boy, I get so full sometimes, I come straight home and immediately flop on my couch (Eating is hard work). So, why biscuits and gravy? Well, I don’t particularly LIKE eggs and at breakfast (or brunch, or any other time of day) there’s not a lot of options without eggs. So, when I looked at the menu, I saw biscuits and gravy and decided ” why not”? When it came, I tried one bite and was like ” WOW! this is great”! So, it was then decided, we would write, BBGB’s got gravy? I’m a genius. I know.

Ok, now that we’re all friends, let’s get this out of the way: We are certainly aware that “Buffalo’s Best Biscuits and Gravy” would be acroynmized as BBBG. We know. You didn’t catch us. BBBG doesn’t allow us to do the cool logo, and as a Generation X dad I reply to the critics: “Does this discrepancy really matter to you? Really? Are you really worried about this? You, actually, like…. care? Don’t you have other things to care about?” Plus, it’s been proven that biscuits and gravy obey the commutative property. Order doesn’t matter my friends, gravy matters, and sometimes bacon does too.

Lastly, we’re not really out to offer culinary criticism. We love living in WNY. We adore our neighbors, except for the annoying boys in fifth grade. Since they’re all ten, except for those 11-year-old paste eaters, it’s safe to assume none of them own restaurants, cook, or wait tables. We’re not out for blood or to make people feel bad. We’re going to focus on the positives and relentlessly expose the kitschy and goofy. If you want someone to tell you how bad a dish was, or how they waited and waited and WAITED for service, this isn’t going to be your thing. You’ll have to wait for my 13-year-old’s blog, she’s got a lot of problems with you people.

The grading system is simple. The dish of concern, the biscuit covered in thickened meat drippings, will be graded on a scale of 1 to 5 gravy-boats. Not just any gravy boat, but an actual picture of my dearly departed grandmother’s prized gravy boat. This gives the task a certain solemn and reverential aspect, which we will do our utmost to honor. This gravy boat, a precious family heirloom, was ceremonially bequeathed to me according to a sacred family tradition, as part of a box of hand-me-down crap when I moved into my first apartment. There were no bowls in this box; this boat has seen its share of cheerios.

We will also choose another facet of each establishment we visit and grade it on a variable basis. The rating system will be strictly of our choosing. One week we may be grading between 1 and 5 slabs of Canadian bacon, while on the next week it’s on a scale of 1 to 5 can-can-dancing wiener dogs. We’re crazy, you hear me?? Crazy!! Too crazy for you? Don’t like variable weekly rating? Well, here’s your rating, big shot:

Yes, that would be the pitiful score of 1 out of 5 roast beef on kaiser rolls. Note the shocking baldness of the roll. Not a single caraway seed nor grain of salt to be found. This sandwich has never even heard of horseradish, and if I’m not mistaken I see a mushroom in it. Disgusting. Shameful. Be better.

Ready to do this?

Let’s do this.