Some places announce themselves with neon signs and sleek branding. PJ’s Wings and Things does it with the smell of smoked meat and fryer oil drifting into the parking lot. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need to shout to be heard—just a steady stream of regulars, a deck full of chatter, and a reputation built one perfectly crisped wing at a time.

It’s a bright Sunday in October when Marc and I pull into the lot, sun bouncing off windshields and the scent of smoked meat drifting into the breeze. We walk into a compact, inviting space filled with British memorabilia—photos of kings, cheeky signage, old awards from competitions past. Above the wood-panelled counter, a sign reads “The Sauce is Always Boss.” A young staffer greets us and confirms what we suspected: the wings and fish and chips are their most popular items. We order 12 Cajun Buffalo wings and the fish and chips, then take our buzzer and head back outside.

The patio is alive. Groups are seated across the deck, sipping cider from the neighbouring taproom, waiting for food, catching up, soaking in the fall sun. Orders are flying out the door, and it’s clear this place has earned its regulars. Beside us, two large smokers release gentle puffs of aromatic smoke into the air, adding to the growing hunger. Every time a buzzer goes off, heads turn, hoping it’s theirs. Ours finally buzzes, and it’s game time.

The fish and chips arrive first—a single 7-ounce fillet, golden and crisp, served the proper British way. The batter is light but structured, holding together just long enough to reveal the flaky white fish inside. No gimmicks, no unnecessary twists—just solid fish, done right, served hot, with a side of tartare sauce that actually adds something. It’s the kind of plate that makes you nod after every bite.

But I have to admit: the wings surprised me. I don’t usually seek them out, but these had me reconsidering. The Cajun Buffalo sauce hits that sweet spot between heat and flavour—spicy enough to notice, but not enough to numb your mouth. The skin is crisp without being crunchy, and when dipped in PJ’s house-made ranch, the combination is borderline addictive. There’s balance here: heat, cool, fat, crunch—all in the right places. You can tell the sauces are made in-house; PJ’s White Sauce, in particular, is so popular that customers apparently buy it by the cup. On Wednesdays, they go through entire jugs of it.

Owner Peter Jones tells me this all started with a market stall, then a food truck, before eventually landing here. “We’ve been busy as hell,” he says, and it’s easy to believe. Born in Portsmouth, Peter came to Canada when he was seven, went back to the UK as a teenager, and brought back a piece of that culinary tradition with him. The fish is caught in Norway and delivered through a Moncton wholesaler. Now, he’s got a tight crew—nine people, including Cameron on the front lines and longtime part-timers like Steve. Most of the team has been with him for years, which says a lot.

The space is tight, and Peter admits it: “It would be nice to have a bigger spot. We’re limited here.” Maybe one day they’ll expand, add more seating, or even bottle their sauces. For now, though, they’re making the most of what they’ve got—and doing it really well.

Going to PJ’s feels like stopping by a friend’s place—if your friend happens to be a master of wings and knows how to fry a mean piece of fish. It’s casual, unpretentious, and deeply satisfying. My fish and chips ran me about eighteen bucks. The wings were sixteen. Could you get wings for cheaper elsewhere? Probably. But this kind of quality, with this kind of care, isn’t as easy to find.

And when you’re done, don’t forget to swing by York County Cider next door. A crisp pint on a sunny patio is the perfect way to finish off a meal like this.

Places like PJ’s are exactly what Eat the Strip is about—reminders that just off the main roads, in the most unremarkable-looking spots, you can find something completely worth the detour.