"Icarus? What the culo... ?" mumbled El Sasquatcho, fully lost in the Greek mythology reference. "No no, Buffalo Wings. The small to moderately sized wings of a chicken, prepared with an emulsification of aged peppers, vegetable oil, and vinegar using a method first performed in a small restaurante in northern Empire State. But hey, many congratulations on making the Punch Game your humiliated boudoir-servant."  

If it was not already apparent to anyone conversing with El Sasquatcho for more than five minutes, he was rather a fan of comfort food. That, and he was a man of large appetite. Perhaps it was necessary, considering his metahuman physiology. Perhaps he just liked to eat, and his physiology maintained his powerful, fit form regardless of what or how much crap he shoveled in. Without a detailed scientific inquiry into the phenomenon, the world (let alone El Sasquatcho) may never know. 

"Yes madam, we are ready to order," he began, speaking to the rather bored woman behind the counter at the snack area. "El Sasquatcho requires wings, forthwith! We both require wings, and lots of..." The luchador trailed off, noticing the approach of another of their group. "Rata! Yes, the three of us will require wings - medium heat, lots and lots of bleu cheese dressing! Maximum number of wings, times three, por favor." 

"And the celery. El Sasquatcho needs it for fiber."

"Ratito! We are just taking a break from the funmaking for a while, for yummy, spicy wings. Did you have something in mind for us to get into? Perhaps later, we can sneak into a university party and scare the bejeezus out of some frat boys, eh?"