Caption: The above is just stock photography, not of an actual Hooters, but you get the idea.
By Kaylee Johnson
and John Frechette
Campus News
Hooters is a chain restaurant started in Clearwater, Fla., in 1983, and a family favorite known for two things, the views and the brews. However, we visited a location as far away from the original as possible, situated in scenic Albany, NY. We believe that people deserve an unbiased assessment of the quality of meals one would receive at the restaurant without commenting on the “scenery.”
The first thing that was present as soon as entering Hooters was the wall of pure stagnation that hits you as soon as you walked into the restaurant, whether it be that these men’s respect for women had not progressed, or the place not being updated and still looking like a 90s beach bar. The fact that the jukebox was playing “Black” by Pearl Jam most certainly was not helping, only drilling the idea of stagnation into the entire place. However, all of these concerns could be alleviated with some good food and great hospitality, right?
At first, when we entered the restaurant, we were greeted by the woman who would end up being our waitress. Yes, she was very nice at first, even writing her name on a napkin with a heart so we won’t forget it. This was the fullest extent of the service that we received, as once it was clear that we were not drinking alcohol, and she would not be getting a tip inflated by their purchase, the quality of the service we were receiving greatly diminished. We were also disappointed by the lack of milkshakes, which seemed like it would be a staple of an establishment like this. We must commend the restaurant for one thing, however. Never in our lives had we ever had such a delightful glass of lemonade. We could have been wandering in the desert for 20 years, and my first glass of lemonade would not have been so satisfying.
Our bubbly waitress was excited to sit us at a high top. Not to be conspiracy theorists, but we think it is fair to assume that Hooters has so many high top tables because the sleazy men that enter those places enjoy a view without having to strain their necks. A couple of older men wearing John Deere gear were trying to flirt with a waitress in her early twenties, obviously striking out like a batter tasked with facing Pedro Martinez in mid-July. She leaned on the table and laughed at their patronizing, stale jokes and rolled her eyes as she walked back to the kitchen. While she would never think of these men again, it was clear that she would live rent free in the patrons’ minds, who will bring up in booze-sessions for years to come the time they “almost hit it off with a Hooters girl.”
In the spirit of Hooters, we decided to try the “Daytona Wings” as a starter. Our waitress could not articulate what the hell the Daytona sauce contained, but since Florida was the birthplace of this humble establishment, we would have been foolish not to give them a try! When the waitress arrived with the wings, the first thing we noticed is that they were crispy enough on the outside and did not provide a diverse taste to the enjoyer. To this day, we are not exactly sure what separates Daytona Sauce from standard grocery store wings sauce, but we will not be trying to discover with another ill-fated examination of the restaurant.
Next, we were treated to the onslaught that would be the main course. This experience could be described in one word, uninspiring. The dishes that were coming out of that kitchen would not have encouraged anyone to pick up a spatula, but rather might have forced some to give up on cooking in general. We were also generously provided with plastic utensils to dive into our meals, and we had to share the single napkin autographed with hearts by our waitress. Curiously, the restaurant only had curly fries and ketchup in packets, but we soon realized that this did not make a difference, as we were so turned off from the whole experience we left a majority of fries on the plate. To end the evening, the waitress asked us if we were thinking about dessert, but doing so would have violated the Geneva Convention for unnecessary use of torture.
Hooters seemed like a toxic masculine version of The Twilight Zone, for example, the large party table next to ours was celebrating a family reunion, truly indulging in booze, wings, and crude jokes. Even though we both have very offbeat relatives, neither of us could relate to that level of awkwardness and dysfunction. It did not even feel like a time warp, as things weren’t even “Hooters bad” decades ago. The restaurant instead feels like time doesn’t exist once you walk through the orange doors and we would strongly recommend staying away from the food (especially if you have preexisting gastrointestinal issues or if you just generally like to enjoy what you’re eating) and the oddly sexist race car and breast themed atmosphere. The place would be the perfect place to take your mother-in-law that you dread coming to town, if necessary.
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