The Magic of Roasted Chicken Wings

These small packages deliver the very essence of poultry—rich, succulent meat wrapped in bronzed, well-rendered skin—in a couple glorious bites. That’s because the bony appendages peek out just enough from under the body of the bird to turn deliciously brown and savory in the heat of the oven. Too bad there are only two per chicken.  

Wouldn’t it be great if you could produce an entire platterful of wings that tasted just like two delectable noshes snuck from a whole bird? I thought so too, so I set out to develop a recipe that would allow me to enjoy the roasted wing experience at the table with my guests instead of in secrecy.

As a starting point, I cribbed the roasting time and oven temperature from one of our standard whole roast chicken recipes. I halved 4 pounds of wings (enough to serve four) at the joint to separate the meaty drumettes from the slim flats; lopped off and discarded the pointy wingtips; and then tossed the parts with oil, salt, and pepper. I spread the parts out evenly on a rimmed baking sheet and slid them into a 400-degree oven for about an hour.

Disappointingly, the wings’ abundant skin browned unevenly, and only some of the fat was rendered, leaving a slew of flabby, pallid spots. 

I suspected that two factors make wings pulled from a whole bird superior to the ones I had just prepared, and both revolve around the anatomy of a chicken. 

First, I speculated that the heft of a 4-pound chicken is enough to pin the wings against a hot roasting pan, helping render the chicken fat and brown the skin. Second, I posited that the drippings from the body of the bird bathe the wings with umami‑rich juices as they roast. Without that period of self‑basting, my wings were pretty lackluster in flavor.

To explore the weight question, I started by arranging the thicker drumettes along the long edges of a baking sheet, which tend to run the hottest, and then scattered the more slender flats in the middle. I set a second baking sheet on top, pressed down lightly, and then roasted the assembly the same way I had roasted the first batch.  

What a difference. The top sheet encouraged better contact with the bottom sheet, enhancing browning and rendering on the undersides of the wings. It also conducted heat more efficiently than the air in the oven, which improved browning and rendering on their top sides. Unfortunately, sandwiching the parts between two pans caused skin-tearing sticking. Oil didn’t fully resolve the issue, but placing sheets of parchment paper under and over the wings did the trick.  

I evolved my method to roasting the weighted wings for 45 minutes before removing the top baking sheet, pouring off any excess juices, flipping each piece, and then briefly popping the sheet under the broiler for a final skin-browning blast of heat. 

At this point, the skin was tawny brown, the fat amply rendered, and the meat moist and tender. Yet the chicken still lacked concentrated poultry flavor. To mimic the taste-enhancing basting action that happens on a whole bird, I tried coating the raw wings in melted butter, thinking that the milk solids would add depth as they browned. Sadly, the extra fat made the wings slick with grease. Next, I braised the wings in a shallow layer of chicken broth, hoping it would reduce and coat the skin as it evaporated. No such luck. The additional liquid simply turned the wings soggy.

Then it occurred to me: Without thinking, I’d been draining off the incredibly tasty drippings released by the wings during roasting. Instead of abandoning those precious liquids, what if I captured them and reintroduced them as a glaze? The skin on chicken wings is full of collagen that turns to gelatin during cooking, so I hoped to produce something with real cling.

For my next batch, I proceeded as before, but this time instead of getting rid of the wingtips, I nestled the tiny bundles of skin, bone, and cartilage in among the drumettes and flats to yield as much umami- and collagen-rich jus as possible. After the parts had roasted for 45 minutes, I tipped the corner of the baking sheet over a fat separator to pour off every drop of the golden liquid. I removed the fat and then reduced the drippings to a thick glaze that I brushed onto the wings after they emerged from the broiler.      

As I’d hoped, the gelatinous reduction clung beautifully to the skin, which emerged glistening and slightly tacky, just like wings you pull from a whole bird. How did they taste? Awesome. The glaze was a real breakthrough, supercharging the wings with savory flavor.  

My wing-hoarding days are officially over. I now have more than enough finger-licking, chicken-y goodness to share with everyone who joins me at the table.