A friend of mine has just entered her last year in the esteemed decade of the twenties. Therefore, a list was created of all the outrageous activities she must participate in before entering the respectable and responsibility-filled years of the thirties. Number one on the list was visiting Hooters.
First of all: Are the wings that good? Much like the dubious claim that Playboy is subscribed to for the articles, the claim has been made that some go to Hooters for the wings. I ordered the "Daytona" wings. I suppose "Daytona" is intended to conjure images of spring break and cars, both topics I assume appeal to this clientele. Our next task was to choose if we wanted the wings breaded or "naked." At this point, I tried, out of sober respect for the server, not to burst out laughing, but one of my co-diners burst out, "NAKED?!", which broke the sobriety of the situation.
The wings were not bad. I found if you mixed the Daytona sauce with spicy sauce with ranch, I liked them. Though hardly a worthy excuse for patronizing the establishment, in my puritanical estimation.
Entering as patrons was quite awkward. A snowy night that kept many home, three church girls bundling in together were somewhat conspicuous. We wondered if we looked a. like lesbians, or b. just really desperate to pick up some men.
We pondered in the parking lot, "What if we see someone we work with in here?" As we entered in our paranoia, we all thought we did in fact see a coworker at one of the tables. He was sitting directly in my line of sight, and I couldn't help but stare as he covered his face with his hand. I asked the friends to verify, and they both blatantly turned and stared at him while he looked on. Upon his departure, our coworker was redeemed, as it was not in fact him, and we realized that we did in this case look b. just really desperate to pick up some men.
One peculiar behavioral efffect we noticed the fine restaurant had on us was that every statement was suddenly latent, nay pregnant, with entendre. The effect was that we were soon guffawing at cheap jokes like any group of 13-year-old boys. And our conspicuousness was heightened by our constant snapping of pictures for scientific documentation of the experiment.
The rest of the dinner was spent in trying to find some comfortable place to rest our eyes. The drink menu seemed to have a marked paucity of pictures of drinks, looking more like a girlie calendar. I was also too embarassed for the servers to actually look at them, and we found ourselves compensating for our embarassment by being overly polite to our server.
Our server was sweet and woefully young. When we arrived, she wrote her name, Anna, on a napkin for us, and when we left, she circled the check amount with a heart for us. Due, no doubt, to advancing age, I felt quite motherly toward her and wanted to throw a parka and some snowpants over her and lecture about how she's "worth more than that."
As we were quite poor at pretending to be interested in the football on the big screens while eating, we contented ourselves in discussing how hard it is to find a good church, quickly getting our check and retiring to Old Chicago for some good old fashioned clothed servers and a big cookie.