A Canadian Visits Hooters Restaurant

I’ve been surprised by many things since I moved to Nottingham. The fact that most English people have full sets of teeth and that it was indeed possible to order a cold beer in a pub, to name a couple. I was also surprised (and a bit saddened) there weren’t more bulldogs, bowler hats or chimney sweeps.

However, I never in my wildest nightmares believed that a place like Hooters would stand a chance over here. I thought the Americans had cornered the market on trashy when it came to eating establishments. England is more cheeky than trashy. This is apparent by the fact that you call curry an English dish, and how you endlessly and unapologetically rip off KFC (I laugh every time I pass a Kansas Fried Chicken or an SFC, complete with KFC font - the laughing stops as soon as I tuck into any food that comes from those places, however).

Even though we’ve got hundreds of Hootii back home, I’d never actually been inside one. Obviously, I’d heard about the waitresses and even seen the get-up they were made to wear, but it wasn’t until I read the employee handbook on The Smoking Gun website that I realised just how crazy the place is.  It’s amazing how specific the handbook gets in relation to the uniform. Here’s my favourite excerpt;

'Hair is to be styled at all times. No ponytails or pigtails are to be worn. The image to be projected is one of glamour. No bizarre haircuts, styles, or colors are acceptable. No hats or headbands are to be worn. No large hair clips or scrunchies.'

Glamour? The 80s roller-derby chick look exudes many things (outdated and cheap, for instance), but one thing it is not is glamorous. And what exactly constitutes a ‘bizarre haircut’? It takes a brave man to tell a woman what she can and can’t do with her hair. It’s probably second only to wrestling cobras naked with a dead mouse taped to your ballsack as the most dangerous thing to do in the world ever. On the other hand, how funny would a wrongful dismissal case due to 'Improper Use of Scrunchie' be?

I’m sure that Hooters is not going to be very busy - this is England we’re talking about, and surely these people know better (even Nottinghamians). I would find out later just how wrong I was. The girl on the other end of the phone tries to take my reservation, but has difficulty with my surname. Even after spelling it a couple times, she still doesn’t get it and hides the fact by giggling profusely. It’s not long before I realise that girlish giggling constitutes an entire conversation with Hooters staff.

I was ready to go with as open a mind as I could muster. However, when we get into the cab, I make Owen (my buddy and fellow Hooters virgin) tell the cabbie we were going to Hooters because I am too embarrassed. Already, I realise that maybe this column won’t be as balanced and objective as I was hoping.

We arrive at Hooters and I find myself scampering in so no-one will see me. I’m not really the scampering type, but I can’t help it. There are only two reasons I can think of for an adult male to scamper; scampering after a train because you’re late, or scampering to your car after buying porn. This was more the latter. In fact, it would be fair to say I felt like a right scampering perv.

The first thing that hits me when I get inside Hooters is the smell. If you could deep-fry an orangutan’s armpit, I imagine this is exactly what it would smell like. The other (more worrying) fact is that the place is absolutely rammed. There’s one guy doing pushups on the table in one corner, one guy being cajoled into downing a pint by a pack of demented Hooters girls banging pots with spoons, and shouty townie blokes and stags everywhere. If you were to custom-design a hell just for me, this would be it. The TVs on every wall, patio lanterns, order tickets moving to the kitchen down tiny zip lines and bouncy waitresses are an absolute GBH on the senses.

Stifling the urge to lapse into an epileptic fit, I look for someone to seat us. And wouldn’t you know it, but we’re greeted by the very girl who took my reservation. Her name, as advertised by her strategically placed tag, is Kimberley (or ‘Kimbles’ as she tells us later), and she remembers our conversation on the phone. 'How do you say your surname again?' she asks. I tell her a third time and she shakes her head and giggles again. Goddamn, I’m hilarious.

When she sits us down, right next to the exposed kitchen, the first thought I have is 'Why on earth would they want their customers to see that?' The sight of sweaty, pimple-faced teenagers, covered in batter, spooning baked beans out of a vat into plastic containers literally makes me gag. Needless to say, when my bean cup arrives at the table, I give it a pass.

We order our food, and Kimbles, wiping down the table, says, 'I do this all the time. I’m like everybody’s mum.' I’m not quite sure what she means by that, but now I’ve got a visual of my mother in hot pants in my head. Thanks for that, Kimbles. She giggles again. It becomes apparent that smiling and giggling are part of the job. Don’t get me wrong; Kimbles is an attractive girl and I’m all for friendly and attentive staff, but being forced to smile is downright disturbing. It feels as if I’ve kidnapped her, and she’s being overly nice to gain my confidence just long enough for me to turn my back so she can club me over the head with a toilet tank cover.

Owen and I get our food, and to our surprise, it’s not bad for a burger joint. It’d taste even better if the kitchen was hidden away, but I haven’t had a decent Buffalo wing in ages, so I really have nothing to complain about in that respect. However, this is small consolation considering I have to eat it whilst surrounded by loud, drunken twats and creepy, scrunchiless fembots. We eat quickly and get the hell out of Dodge.

The UK was supposed to get thirty-six more Hooters, but they've met with pretty stiff (no pun intended) opposition in practically every place they’ve tried. I realise the main reason it stays open is because it is close to two football pitches and is regularly filled with knuckle-dragging hooligans, but that’s no excuse; even bloody Sheffield successfully stopped Hooters from opening in its town centre, which means we are officially more sexist than Yorkshiremen. How is that even possible?