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“Welcome to Hooters!” screamed the young, scantily-clad waitress. I suppose this was her way of announcing, to any interested patrons, that a likely group of hard-of-hearing men had just entered the premises.

We were at this elegant restaurant in order to exploit my buddy’s leftover $50 Christmas gift certificate, and I was looking forward to enjoying good conversation and a platter full of their “World Famous Wings.” The clientele was largely, but not exclusively men. It struck me that this seemed like an odd place to bring a date. But, I guess it helps get you past that awkward “I saw you looking at her!” stage.

We were soon seated at a table by the stairs which afforded me an excellent vantage point to appreciate the tensile strength of Lycra as the servers bounced up and down the steps.

Glancing around at the waitstaff I realized that I haven’t seen so much female anatomy since last February’s Sports Illustrated. The girls seemed to be rushing about filling pitchers and delivering food on small cafeteria trays. Periodically, they would gather to bust out (if you’ll pardon the pun) in a ribald song to honor someone’s birthday or to toast a groom-to-be.

A typical waitress seemed to be about 21, perky, vain and energetic. They are outfitted in tiny tank tops and distinctive orange-colored hot pants (which must be effective because I’ve never heard of someone bagging a waitress during deer season). There are also a few apprentice Hooters Girls busing the tables. You can recognize them because they wear tiny, rather demure, tan short-shorts instead of the satin orange ones on your first-stringers.

We were fortunate to be customers of the best-looking Hooter’s Girl in the place. She was so good-looking that I remember everything about her like, I think she had two eyes, for instance. Every time she came to our table, she seemed to need to bend over. Regardless of whether she was bringing us drinks or food or whatever, she had to lean down, providing a rather revealing glimpse of her ummm “World Famous Wings.”

I, of course, tried to ignore this view, thinking that it must be unintentional. Still, somehow I found myself requesting more and more items each time she passed by. At the end of the meal, I think I had accumulated at least a dozen tiny containers of salad dressing.

Eventually, I finished my sophomoric game of exchanging cleavage for condiments and our conversation turned to of all things the subject of gay marriage. Now, I may be the most homophobic man ever put on this Earth, but I still feel that what two (or more, I guess) adults do in the privacy of their own homes is just gross. So, just don’t put it on national TV okay?

But I digress

Wide-screen TVs occupied every available stretch of wall space at Hooters. Each was broadcasting a sporting event, including the “hurling” championships (not what you think) from Ireland. This is not the place to gather for a few drinks while viewing the latest episode of “Gray’s Anatomy,” or “Dr. Phil.”

The Hooters fare consists of beef and lots of it. I think they had to go next door to the 7-Eleven to get my salad. And you simply must try the fries which were nearly as blah as their infamous wings.

Still, going to this chic establishment for the food is tantamount to watching MTV to listen to great music.

We munched our way through the $50 gift certificate rather quickly, and decided it was time to leave. My friend lifted his index finger to give the international signal for the check. And we closed our dinner by watching our Hooter’s Girl come jogging over to our table with her tank top looking like two kids fighting under a blanket.

I’m thinking of bringing Kim back here next Saturday night for “date night” and some awesome wings!

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