Audio By Carbonatix
I’m a hopeless romantic. There’s simply no other explanation for why I took my girlfriend to Hooter’s (1390 South Colorado Boulevard) the other night. Some guys try to compartmentalize their relationships, but I feel it’s important to include my girlfriend whenever it’s practical. That way, if and when we inexplicably progress to the next relationship level, there will be full prior disclosure. I am nothing if not conscientious, and I would be guilt-ridden if this woman only found out a few years from now that I drag my knuckles when I walk.
Anyway, the head of the Division of Pathologic Drinking at the Institute of Drinking Studies had a buddy in town, which all guys looking for an excuse to go to a skin club know is carte blanche to go anywhere in town — at least in your own mind. This time it meant Hooter’s, and I asked my girlfriend, Arias, if she would like to join us — fully expecting the rolled eyeballs that are the usual female response to an invitation to Hooter’s, and which always make a guy feel like the degenerate lout he really is. But she agreed to go because — and this is why I love her — she said she was in the mood for Hooter’s wings.
I couldn’t believe that she’d hit on the number-one reason guys like to go to Hooter’s. As with the stories behind the centerfold in Playboy, the daytime movies on Cinemax and the lunch buffet at a strip club, there are misconceptions about why we like this place, too. Wives, girlfriends and mothers don’t understand that there’s nowhere else in the civilized world where you can get good breaded wings at an establishment with such a strict dress code.
It goes without saying, therefore, that as soon as we ordered our wings, we started sneaking peeks at the staff — the number-two reason guys like to go to Hooter’s. We soon escalated to outright rudeness as we tried to discern which uniformed bosoms were as natural as the owl emblazoned on the front of the shirts covering them. To be honest, Arias has a horrible sense of augmented and real breasts. I don’t think she’s as dedicated to the truth as most guys are.
Almost everyone who sets foot in a Hooter’s becomes invested in this game: the guys out of pure adoration and the women out of vicious vindictiveness. The only ones not interested are those younger than twelve — boys there with their dads who are too busy having the greatest experience of their lives to bother with such things as thinking about anatomy or even breathing.
This night, though, there was a new twist to the judging. Anyone who questions whether God is a guy need only have witnessed this scene to know for a certainty that God is not just a guy, but a guy who made Hooter’s and beer and decided that both were good. We were seated near the waitress station and, as one of the waitresses popped the top off of a beer, the contents exploded all over her chest. At our table, there was a collective pause as we contemplated the appropriate reaction: making sure she was okay, making sure that wasn’t a beer we’d ordered, or offering to help her clean up. We went with an alternative answer, and suggested that every waitress open a well-shaken bottle of beer. That way we could judge each woman on similar terms.
Luckily for us, the Hooter’s staff is used to such juvenile antics (the company website says that more than 70 percent of the clientele is male, aged 25 to 54 — duh!) and service continued uninterrupted. In my experience, the service at Hooter’s is always impeccable, and on this night the staff had to put up with more than the usual dose of pathology. Despite being dressed in uniforms that leave little to the stunted imagination, the waitresses were always smiling. Our beer glasses were always full, because every two seconds our server picked up our pitcher and poured; as a result, we got hammered quickly and efficiently, sucking down the beer quickly so that she’d return even sooner. The beer at Hooter’s is always cold; in hot weather, the bar will often put a bag of ice in the pitcher. I’m almost ashamed to admit that the temperature made even overpriced Miller and Coors products palatable. And during any break in the gawking and flirting, we could always catch a game or sports highlights on the numerous TVs around the room.
Wrapping up a near-perfect night, our tab came to $69. It was enough to get a guy back to church.
And to inspire huge tips for the waitresses, because, as at strip clubs, any time a guy has his basic needs met — here with beer, wings and at least half-naked women — he’s convinced that he’s being hit on. I hope Arias took notes.
