15 Iconic Foods And Drinks To Try In Buffalo, New York

I've covered food and drink culture around the world as a journalist, and few places match Buffalo's uniquely deep bench of hyper-regional products and the diehard loyalty that keeps them thriving.

This isn't just about good chicken wings. It's more like, "We will have a knock-down, drag-out fight about who makes the best wings right in the middle of this family gathering." In fact, one of this city's greatest love languages is feeding you ... and then immediately correcting you if you don't eat it the right way (spoiler alert: it's not with ranch).

This story isn't a "where to eat and drink" guide. It's a round-up of everything you need to try if you find yourself in the City of Good Neighbors. Some of these are famous outside of Western New York (like wings). Others are deeply local obsessions that make Buffalonians light up like you just told them the Bills won the Super Bowl.

My methodology? Immersion. My husband's from South Buffalo, so I've spent years eating and drinking around the city. The place has a way of getting under your skin: the pride, the neighborhood codes, the bars (and grocery stores) where everyone knows your name (and your business). That's the spirit of this list: not just what to eat and drink, but how to do it Buffalo-style. For each essential, you'll get what it is, why it matters, and how to eat it properly, plus iconic references when names need to be named.

No Buffalo food and drink guide would be complete without a reference to the holy chicken wing. It's not a stereotype. People really do love their wings here, and they really are that good. What is that saying about pizza? Even when it's bad, it's still pretty good? Classic Buffalo wings served in Buffalo are like this; even sub-par versions are solid.

Close your eyes and picture the most delicious, quintessential chicken wing, and you've got the Buffalo standard. It's not an "elevated" version with a dry rub or a weird breading. There's no fancy drizzle or lollypop shape. Just crispy chicken wings tossed in sauce (or not), served with celery and blue cheese. Don't like blue cheese? Nobody cares. You're still not getting a side of ranch unless you also want an order of side eye.

Need iconic references? Anchor Bar gets credit for being "home of the original Buffalo wing," while Duff's has its loyal following. But true locals will happily give you their hot take on "best wings" spots in any Buffalo neighborhood — literally every person in the city has one.

While a roast beef sandwich doesn't sound particularly exciting, Buffalo's beef on weck is its own breed. The real star of the show is the signature Kimmelweck roll (where beef on "weck" comes from). It's a Kaiser-style bun topped with coarse salt and caraway seeds that just sings in this simple sandwich.

Inside, the roll is topped with thinly-sliced, juicy roast beef. Aficionados add a hearty dollop of horseradish, either mixed into au jus or slapped on there with the confidence of someone who truly enjoys an aggressively cleared sinus. It's a minimalist combo that just works: savory, salty, spicy, and a little bit aromatic thanks to the caraway seeds.

Wings may be Buffalo's quintessential calling card, but beef on weck is often what locals bring up when they want to separate visitors from the truly initiated. For every "best place for Buffalo wings" debate, you'll likely hear a corresponding "best beef on weck" argument as well. At the end of the day, just don't assume this is a mere roast beef sandwich situation — this is a treasured institution you're talking about. 

While Tim Hortons is technically Canadian (their most popular fast-food chain, in fact), Buffalo and Canada have a relationship that goes beyond border buddies. I was born in Toronto and often joke that my husband is more Canadian than I am because I left in my early teens while he grew up all the way in Buffalo.

For Buffalonians, Tim Hortons is routine for road trips, pre-hockey practice caffeine runs, and afternoon pick-me-ups when that lake effect snow gets rolling. The orders are delightfully simple: a double-double (coffee with two creams, two sugars) and a box of Timbits (aka donut holes), usually to go. Is it the greatest coffee you'll ever drink? No. Is that the point? Also no. The point is that in Buffalo, Tim Hortons is something you can grab easily without thinking, as a perfect accompaniment to your day-to-day life that asks very little in return (you won't find an $8 pour-over here).

For context, Buffalo sits in that overlap where Canadian brands aren't so much "international" as they are part of the landscape. That's why you'll also see Canadians show up in Buffalo for shopping, and find iconic Canadian bands like the Tragically Hip and Rush on heavy rotation across the border. Tim Hortons is edible proof of this great cross-border cultural mash-up.

The first time I tasted Weber's mustard, I think I slapped the table and moaned, "When Harry Met Sally"-style. It's a simple pantry staple, but I could divide my life into pre-Weber's mustard and post-Weber's mustard, because this condiment has really improved my quality of life.

Dubbed "Buffalo's favorite mustard" on the Weber's website, this bright yellow spread is anything but fancy, which is part of its appeal. It's not trying to be artisanal. It's just trying to be as mustard-y as possible, which makes it the perfect condiment, improving anything it touches with a satisfying twang.

Weber's offers a range of flavors from plain to hot garlic to jalapeño, as well as a tasty dill pickle relish. But the real standout, more widely available and coveted than the standard version, is the horseradish mustard. It's tangy and savory with just enough of a kick to raise your pulse a beat or two, and I truly can't imagine a sandwich, hot dog, or burger without it now.

With a Buffalo origin story that dates back to the 1920s, a jar of Weber's makes a perfect souvenir. I bring some of it home every time I'm in town, and have made it a standing rule that anyone visiting from Western New York has to show up with a jar or two of it as well.

Buffalo's affection for loganberry runs deeper than mere nostalgia — it's a regional identity marker. This tart, berry-purple beverage traces back more than a century, when Crystal Beach amusement park across the Canadian border began serving a proprietary loganberry drink that became synonymous with summer.

The loganberry itself, a blackberry-raspberry hybrid developed in California, never found mainstream American success, but Buffalo claimed it. When Crystal Beach closed in 1989, those seeing the business potential of this beloved drink kept it alive, with brands like Aunt Rosie's and PJ's Crystal Beach emerging with great success.

In Buffalo, you'll find loganberry everything: frozen custard swirls at Anderson's, cocktails at neighborhood bars, even loganberry wings. At our house, we keep a bottle on hand to drizzle over bowls of homemade shaved ice or top with sparkling water. Its charm comes from its sticky-sweet-tart flavor profile — not quite raspberry, but almost like cherry-meets-black-currant-meets-boysenberry. For Buffalonians, ordering loganberry isn't quirky regionalism; it's a nostalgic childhood throwback that signals you probably grew up there.

The food world really knocked it out of the park when it invented chicken fingers in the first place, so the idea of slathering them in sauce and sticking them on a bun with all the fixings is such an obvious next step toward transcendental deliciousness it's almost elusive.

In fact, the origin story of the chicken finger sub (at least on paper) only goes as far back as the early 1980s, when the crew at John's Pizza and Subs in Tonawanda noticed their breaded chicken tenders (essentially deconstructed wings) were flying off the line. So they put them on a roll and started a movement.

The beauty lies in customization: hot sauce or mild, blue cheese or melted mozzarella, lettuce and tomato or my family's favorite—slathered in barbecue sauce. Quality is essential here: these aren't your cafeteria-grade frozen tenders, but substantial, hand-breaded chicken fingers engineered for unapologetically indulgent consumption

No trip to Buffalo would be complete for me without spending at least a portion of it hunched over an open container of Bison Dip, bag of potato chips or baby carrots in hand. This Western New York institution has been produced by UNC Dairy since the late 1950s, and is still deeply loved by locals who grew up with it at every family gathering.

It's basically a creamy French onion dip, in tubs branded with a distinctive Bison logo. The polar opposite of Buffalo's attention-hogging wings, it's pure comfort food and the default chip dip at birthday parties, fish fries, and summer barbecues across Erie County.

You'll find it in every supermarket dairy case from Tops to Wegmans, sitting alongside national brands that Buffalonians mostly ignore in its favor. What makes it distinctly Buffalo is its ubiquity without fame or fanfare. This isn't a product that's expanded beyond Western New York, and locals prefer it to remain the kind of regional specificity that separates actual residents from transplants.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am as diehard a pizza enthusiast as it gets. It's my desert island food, and I've met very few pies or slices I didn't like. That said, some regions do have a special place in my heart when it comes to this beloved food. Of course, nothing beats a greasy, late-night New York City slice, and Naples will always be the royal standard. But Buffalo may just be the unsung hero of the pizza world, and is certainly among my all-time favorites.

The crust falls somewhere between a foldable NYC slice and Chicago deep dish, with mozzarella spread generously to the edges for that signature caramelized crispiness. But the real showstopper is the "cup and char" pepperoni that curls into grease-catching vessels when hit with high heat, creating crispy, slightly burnt edges thanks to thickly sliced, small-diameter pepperoni baked in super hot ovens.

This pepperoni cup formation has become Buffalo's pizza calling card. Another trademark is the prevalence of the sheet pizza — giant, rectangular pies cut into squares for the perfect party grab. California pizza parlors may look at me like I'm crazy when I inquire about sheet pizzas for kids' birthday parties, but Buffalo is really onto something with these.

The key to my kids' hearts is sponge candy, Buffalo's answer to honeycomb toffee found around the world. Bonus points if you let them eat it for breakfast, which my in-laws frequently do. And I don't blame either of them. This stuff is delicious.

Sponge candy's origins trace back to multiple chocolatiers in the early 20th century, with many local establishments claiming to have heritage recipes. If you've never had it, it's chocolate wrapped around a center of crunchy, caramelized sugar toffee filled with tiny bubbles, thanks to the chemical reaction that happens when baking soda is added to hot sugar syrup, producing little air pockets. This aerated chocolate confection appears in every Buffalo candy shop, grocery store, and gift basket, especially around holidays.

Done right, sponge candy shatters dramatically when bitten, releasing sweet toffee flavor before dissolving on your tongue — a textural experience that's at once crisp and delicate. The rich chocolate coating is essential structural support; without it, the hygroscopic candy would go stale within hours. Sponge candy is pure Western New York heritage. If you try one Buffalo sweet, make it this.

Sahlen's hot dogs have been Buffalo's go-to frank since 1869, when the Sahlen family began producing smoked meats in a small Buffalo shop. Sahlen's claim to fame is the natural casing that provides that signature "snap" when you bite down — a sensory element locals consider essential to a proper American hot dog.

These aren't the rubbery, uniform tubes found at most ballparks. These are dogs with character: slightly irregularly shaped and distinctly smoky thanks to traditional smoking methods. You'll find them everywhere: grilled at get-togethers, boiled at Ted's Hot Dogs, and most importantly, at Sahlen's field where the Bisons — Buffalo's AAA affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays — play.

The company has remained family-owned through five generations, and fans are fiercely loyal (some view serving a different hot dog brand at a Buffalo gathering as borderline offensive). The dogs come in various sizes, but the classic skinless and natural casing versions dominate local consumption.

Speaking of hot dogs, Buffalo has elevated late-night drunk food with the unfortunately coined slime dog — a magnificent disaster of a hot dog that's actually way better than it sounds .

This late-night favorite usually involves a Sahlen's hot dog, split lengthwise and grilled until charred, then buried under a layer of sauce that locals affectionately call "slime" (Is it meat? Is it mustard? Something else?). The sauce, apparently a heavily guarded recipe involving mustard, relish, ground meat, and other undisclosed ingredients, has the consistency of something you'd use to patch drywall, but when you're coming home from the bar, a few too many Genesee beers in, it's practically compulsory.

The dog sits in a standard bun that quickly becomes structurally compromised by the sauce's weight, requiring either aggressive napkin deployment or blind acceptance that you'll end up wearing some of your meal. It's not pretty, it's not sophisticated, and health-conscious eaters should look away. But the slime dog represents Buffalo's proud culinary persona: unpretentious, occasionally excessive, and engineered for maximum satisfaction with zero regard for appearances.

The first time I ever visited Buffalo, I couldn't believe the number of people I saw drinking Labatt Blue, the beer I had seen all of my relatives drink as a kid growing up in Canada. Indeed, Labatt is technically a Canadian import from just across the Niagara River, but it's widely claimed as a local beer through sheer proximity to its northern neighbor. In fact, Buffalo is Labatt's largest single American market. 

Brewed in London, Ontario, since 1951, Labatt Blue became Buffalo's default beer long before craft brewing arrived. As a crisp, clean pilsner-style lager produced more for volume consumption than contemplation, it's the easy choice at Bills tailgates, house parties, and corner bars across Western New York.

Blue (and corresponding Blue Light) is everywhere. And, while it's not trying to win any beer competitions, it nevertheless exists proudly in that sweet spot of "good enough to drink all day, cheap enough not to think about it." In a city that's embraced craft beer culture enthusiastically, Labatt remains the baseline, the beer your dad drank and his dad before him, and the one you'll probably let your own kid taste their first sip of.

The fish fry started as a way to circumvent the Catholic practice of abstaining from meat on Fridays and has since evolved into a weekly religious and social ritual that transcends its Catholic Lenten origins. Every Friday, Western New Yorkers tuck into plates of beer-battered or breaded haddock or cod with a lineup of sides that could be a meal on their own: coleslaw, potato salad or fries, macaroni salad, rye bread, and a lemon wedge.

Virtually every bar, tavern, restaurant, VFW, and American Legion Post is home to a Friday fish fry during Lent, with some of Buffalo's most revered ones happening every Friday year-round at Gene McCarthy's in the Old First Ward, Hoak's in Hamburg, and The Blackthorn in South Buffalo. The fish fry represents Buffalo's Catholic heritage, working-class roots, and communal dining culture condensed into one weekly tradition that continues to pack venues decades after its religious mandate became optional.

Pierogies are among Buffalo's most underrated eats, and further proof that the city's food culture is significantly shaped by immigrant roots. Polish immigrants arriving in the late 19th and early 20th centuries brought pierogi-making to Buffalo's East Side and Cheektowaga neighborhoods, where the half-moon dumplings became both nourishment and cultural preservation. By the 1940s and '50s, church fundraisers introduced them to wider Buffalo audiences, cultivating an enthusiasm for them beyond Polish households (including becoming Martha Stewart's favorite comfort food).

The classics are potato and cheese, sauerkraut, maybe onion, served boiled or pan-fried, often with butter, sour cream, and onions. They can be a meal, a side, or a late-night craving. Families still gather before Easter to make them in the same way their grandmothers did, with recipes and specific traditions passed down generation after generation.

Each spring around Easter, the Broadway Market, established in 1888, becomes pierogi headquarters, where vendors like Babcia's produce hundreds of thousands during the holiday rush. You'll find traditional fillings alongside Buffalo-inspired varieties: Buffalo wing and beef on weck pierogies are proof that even deep cultural tradition isn't immune to local flavor obsession.

Chiavetta's marinade has defined Buffalo-style barbecue chicken since 1954, when the Chiavetta family began selling their vinegar-and-herb-based sauce at community events. But this isn't Kansas City sticky-sweet or Carolina vinegar sauce. Chiavetta's is in a category of its own — a tangy, herb-filled blend built on vinegar, garlic, and proprietary spices that's designed for slow-cooking chicken over open charcoal grills.

Chiavetta's chicken is ubiquitous at festivals, fundraisers, and community events across Western New York, where volunteers tend large grills that produce hundreds of chicken halves. The bottled marinade is sold in every local supermarket, allowing home cooks to replicate the flavor, though purists maintain the charcoal grill is essential.

Both a product and a tradition, the bottle of Chiavetta's in your fridge is the at-home version of a bigger regional phenomenon. It represents community events where you buy a dinner ticket, run into someone's uncle, and leave with a plate that smells like summer — familiar, nostalgic, and delicious.