Nothing Gold Can Stay

Let’s consider the old wink/nudge rationale that the sophisticated
gentleman reads Playboy “for the articles.” Anyone familiar
with the magazine knows there’s truth to it: The writing in
Playboy has always been top-notch. As an intellectual bonus,
seeded between pages of original fiction by Michael Chabon and an
interview with Salman Rushdie or Bill Gates, there are pictures of
naked women.

The culinary corollary is Hooters. The sophisticated gentleman goes
to Hooters “for the wings.” It’s a longstanding fact that the
connoisseur in search of a quintessential buffalo-chicken experience
finds his booty here. Meaty parts, memorable sauce, light
grease—proportional, tongue curling, deep-fried. An ideal wing.
And what’s this? Our all-American delicacy delivered by all-American
nubiles in short-shorts and tank tops? Synergy!

That’s how it used to be, at least. In late-1980s South Florida,
Hooters was a locals-only source of hometown pride. There were five or
six Hooters restaurants in existence then, from Clearwater (Hooters’
humble birthplace in the backwaters of Florida’s Gulf Coast) to Miami
(its aesthetic apex amid the tacky, beachy adult playground). I first
frequented the West Palm Beach location with my older brother when I
was 14 or so. It had a unique, celebratory air—a baldly sensual
vigor that my brother, six years my senior, was ripe for appreciating.
Through him I learned to savor the perfect wing: served unbreaded
(“naked” in Hooters parlance) with pungent, vinegary Three Mile Island
sauce on the side, eaten with one hand wingbound, the other clutching a
paper towel, the stance that encouraged maximum consumption and minimum
mess. I learned to take a shucked oyster on a saltine with a jot of
Tabasco. The waitresses—perky, cheerleader-like, not much older
than me—were strip-club friendly, made you feel VIP, lingering at
your table, calling you by name. Hooters Girls: They’d hula-hoop if you
put Tom Petty on the jukebox. I learned they deserved the biggest tip I
could afford.

In its heyday, the Hooters menu was rightly minimal—just
wings, curly fries, raw oysters, steamed clams, and some sandwiches.
Shellfish came from the Gulf of Mexico; buffalo sauce and blue-cheese
dip were made in-house. Hooters Shooters—short, plastic medicine
cups of beer sedimented with horseradish and a raw oyster—weren’t
on the menu, but were served by request by the tray of 50. The only
frill was the floating Ziploc-bag ice buoy that kept my brother’s
pitchers of Bud near freezing. Narrow focus wrought expertise.

It also wrought better talent, to put it coarsely. Confined to only
a handful of outlets, the Hooters Girl gene pool was deeper. Thanks to
Clearwater native Lynne Austin, Playboy‘s Miss July 1986,
Hooters Girls earned the rank of minor celebrity. In West Palm, they
were frequently beautiful, often clever, occasionally exceptional. By
senior year of high school, friends and I were skipping seventh-period
chemistry to spend Friday afternoons with our favorite. She went to a
rival high school and would hang out at our table while we guzzled
bucket-size glasses of iced tea. I forget her name.

For a suburban teenager, Hooters offered a simple, seemingly
sophisticated joy: These Hooters Girls were empowered. We were too
young to drink beer, but we were at a place that served it. We ate raw
oysters by the dozen. And those wings were damn good. We knew no
better.

As of 2008—Hooters’ 25th anniversary, woo-hoo!—Hooters
of America, Inc. operates 440 locations in 43 states and 25 countries.
The company also runs Hooters magazine, Hooters MasterCard,
and the Hooters Casino Hotel in Las Vegas. Most anybody aware of its
ubiquity would have a hard time mustering unironic enthusiasm for
Hooters’ well-worn ambience. The current state of its oversized menu
and underenthusiastic wait staff is a testament to the diluting effects
of globalization. There are families at Hooters now. The talent is
spread too thin. The thrill is gone.

Especially in Seattle in late winter. For one thing, there’s valet
parking at the dockside South Lake Union complex where Hooters is
situated. To Toothsome and News, my companions on a recent visit, this
is incongruous with the place’s thoroughly lowbrow MO (NASCAR
paraphernalia on the walls, sports highlights on the TVs, fluorescently
lit dining room, etc.). For another, our waitress is draped in an
oversize, baggy T-shirt. We are disappointed. We ask. She’s pregnant,
she says. Toothsome ponders aloud: “What am I supposed to fantasize
about when I get home?”

The wing, thankfully, remains a winner, especially in Seattle in
late winter. It’s oversize and crisp, whether breaded or naked, and the
Three Mile Island sauce scorches an adult (read: nicotine-numbed)
palate. Its vinegary tang is a sweat-inducing endorphin rush—the
effect you go to Hooters for. Whether the wing is worth the ostracism
from friends and coworkers when you tell them where you’re going
depends on how badly you crave it. Like most wicked things, the wing is
eminently cravable.

The curly fries are curly and fried as promised. The Hooters
Shooter—still not on the menu, but available by request—is
as brazenly gross and weirdly satisfying as I remember. There is also
plenty of cheap and not-so-cheap beer available, though our pitchers
arrive sans ice buoy.

The rest of the menu should be avoided completely. My dining
companions are fearful of Hooters’ rendition of raw shellfish, so we
pass on oysters. As for the onion rings (served with Thousand Island
dressing?), the nachos, and the coleslaw—just don’t. For some
reason, Hooters now serves nonfried things like quesadillas, a chicken
Parmesan platter, and a Cobb salad. There is also a deep-fried

pickle. To enjoy these items, people should go to places other
than Hooters. Then again, people used to host their 11-year-olds’
birthday parties at places other than Hooters. Things have changed.

After a few pitchers and a couple dozen wings, the three of us leave
let down and mercifully drunk. I’m the only one disillusioned by the
unfun food-court plasticness of the experience. “What the hell did you
expect?” News asks. “It’s Hooters.” Exactly. The writing in
Playboy is still top-notch, but the Hooters I remember is gone
for good.

Except for that ideal wing. Your best bet: Call in your order of two
dozen naked, Three Mile Island on the side; skip the valet and get the
wings to go; enjoy them at home with a copy of Hooters open on
the coffee table and NASCAR loud on the TV. You’re guaranteed all the
goodness, minus any preteen birthday parties.