Were it not for the pudgy young brothers working behind the counter, their beautiful mom, and stern but affable father, this place would have little to set it apart from the run of the mill. The wings are just that, more crisp than rubbery, but not crisp enough. The fries are good, but not good enough to overcome pedestrian wings. Yet somehow, every time I stand across the counter from that chubby twelve-year-old asking for my order in clipped syllables, the kitchen staff buzzing around in their matching red J’s Wong caps, I can’t help but think about the American Dream. Ordering wings from J’s Wong is an act of hope — that they’re better than the last time. Sometimes they are.