Monday, November 23, 2009

Restaurant Review! Hooters. Seriously.

This is not a true review, since I did not actually feast.  I had a beer feast, but since it was just pitchers of Bud Light, it was not even a noteworthy feast.  Just a few observations: 

I had to go to Hooters to watch the Eagles game once.  There are only 3 bars downtown with NFL Sunday ticket and it was "1950s Doo Wop Dance Night" at TJ Mulligans in the Pinch.  This happens on the third Sunday of each  month.  The DJ sets up a screen and apparently blasts music so loudly that watching a game is out of the question.  Sometime during the first quarter of the Eagles game we noticed a lot of old people coming into the bar, realized our mistake, and had to relocate.  Calhouns I love, but if you don't get there early you can not get a seat.  Prime Time touts itself as a sports bar but somehow does not have Sunday Ticket.  Retarded.  Alas, I was forced to go to Hooters.  Our service sucked.  Our server was about 20, and she wasn't terrible looking.  She was still in the stage where the meth had made her fairly thin, but her teeth had not rotted out yet.  It was not that she was gross, she just didn't do a good job.  She sat a a booth and talked to her boyfriend the entire time.  

The main reason for this post is to showcase this picture.  The following sign greeted me upon entering Hooters on Third & Peabody Place.  Nice grammar.  I understand that a degree in literature is not required to work at a chain restaurant, but kindergarten students should be able to match a subject to a verb in a way that is not done here. 

1 comment:

  1. My cousin's the 2nd biggest beer snob ever (his gf is the biggest) and told me today he has never in his life "ordered a pitcher of Bud Light". THen I told him, "Without the rain, sir, one cannot truly appreciate the rainbow."

    I love love love your description of your waitress. That is 99% of Hooters waitresses. I prefer the rare 40-something bleary-eyed ex-truck stop waitresses, who, instead of angrily glaring at me when I blatantly stare at their chests, actually look back at me with a relieved sense of gratitude, as if they were saying, "Thanks for staring at my middle aged cleavage... its good to know I still have some marketable value."