The service is great. Unless you come on a game night. Or your friend asks the waitress for her phone number.
The food is fab. And by "food" I mean wings. Nothing else counts. That's why I can't really dock them for having shrunken, misshapen potato wedges, watery coleslaw, bare bones ribs or tasteless nacho chips. It's a wing joint. It would be like docking points from a pizza joint for having a dried up hamburger. Check the sign, buddy. If it says "Buffalo Wild Wings", then chances are that's the only safe food to eat.
The atmosphere is dull and lifeless. Unless there's a game going on. And then there's too much atmosphere. If you're lucky the screams and cheers of the other diners will drown out the fact that your food is like a half an hour late and your sprite needs a refill.
The price is appalling. Unless it's a Wing Tuesday or Boneless Thursday. In which case it's only semi-appalling, if you have no bones with paying extra for a cup of ranch or bleu cheese. Look, not to be a pain in the ass, but you have vats of them in the back. Maybe if you had a little man sitting there in the back heaving and hoeing to pump that artery-clogging goodness in its tiny plastic cups, then I wouldn't mind so much. But I shouldn't have to pay an extra 50 cents because you can't afford to offer 40 cent wings or 50 cent legs three times a week. Take a fucking economics class, you bum.