In this occasional series, Teresa Lensch provides a woman's view of area "breastaurants." She previously filed dispatches from Twin Peaks, Tilted Kilt, Bikini's, Wild Pitch and, most recently, Redneck Heaven.
How can you do this series without a visit to Hooters? You can't. I won't. I didn't.
I don't care if you're bored by Hooters. Hooters girls still wear pantyhose. And after some of my experiences in recent weeks, this gives me peace, as I can enjoy my meal tonight with no few worries about hygiene.
Approaching the door, I see through the window a cute little boy with his family. I smile. The sun shines down on my uplifted face and warms me to my core. The worst is over.
Going in, I know what to expect. Hooters has been hanging in there forever like a champ, and each year they have a choice in how to respond to new competition in this bulging market of boobs and food. It's clear that they've chosen to market more to women and families versus skanking it up. I want to give them a great big hug for it.
Inside, there are several more tables of cute families laughing it up while they eat their wings. Lots of couples, too. A few tables of guys are hanging out, but none I'd be skeptical about making eye contact with.
My friend and I order two shots of Cuervo (I like cheap and am trying to keep the playing field even here), which they don't have. And as if tapped on the shoulder by my guardian booze-angel, the waitress suggests El Jimador instead.
We are surrounded by the tried and true uniform of the Hooters girl. Tight white tank top, orange short shorts, pantyhose, white socks and shoes. I feel like we're on the sidelines of a Mavericks game having shots delivered by the Mavs dancers. The shorts are short, and pantyhose by themselves are kind of gross, but they keep everything tucked in and under control. And that kicks ass. Thank you, pantyhose, for all that you do.
It's Wednesday Wings night so I'm pigging out on ten 911 boneless wings and fries for $6.99. It's all good. I'm always psyched when the "hot" wing sauces are actually HOT. And these are. I'll have to loop back soon to try the two sauces that are supposed to be hotter than these. I drink my big mug of Blue Moon and scope everything out to see what's happening.
Not one oogie moment to be had tonight. Memories of Redneck Heaven seared into my brain, I am admittedly LOOKING for something that ain't right. Wait, there's a guy trying to sneak pics of the waitress with his phone. Sneaky perv -- damn, he just asked her if he could take a picture with her. It's a birthday party and this group of about eight guys is friendly, polite. Nobody's inappropriately touching anyone else, be they wait staff or customers. Redneck Heaven regulars would think they accidentally stumbled into a church. Churches serve wings now, right?
"Excuse me, can we borrow that chair?" They would kindly like to borrow a chair from us. Of course you can, Mr. Manners. And have a wonderful birthday. Would you like us to take a picture of your whole group?
It's that kind of vibe. But you probably already knew that. You know this place. Now the tamest "breastaurant" of them all and still successful, proving it can be done without sacrificing all self-respect. Pantyhose for the win.
