I hate Hooters. I hate the image. I hate that girls think it is okay to be looked at in a derogatory way. That Hooters is referring to the waitress' breast. It's a sleazy thought.
Many years ago, when our first Hooters opened in Indianapolis, I went with an RV full of Race Fans. We had just finished watching the Indianapolis 500, and the host wanted to treat us all to a new place that had steamed oysters (a favorite of mine).
Needless to say I was slightly shocked at the restaurant. Our host's sister was working there and waited on us. It was ...uhmmm, interesting. That was about 15 years ago. I never went back.
When in Florida, my girls begged to go to Hooters where all the teens hung out. I reluctantly agreed. Peer pressure got the best of me. They love it. Love the food. Say it's a fun place. They are not allowed to buy, borrow or think about wearing a Hooters shirt.
Also when in Florida, I found a wonderful little place in Seaside that serves fried pickles. I love them. I have tried to copy making them but can't even compare to the great taste. No one in Indy will make them. I have looked everywhere.
Yesterday, Emily brought me a platter of Fried Pickles. They were the best! I loved them. OMG! Where did she get them? HOOTERS! She said, "See, it's not that bad, they serve your fried pickles". NO ONE IN INDY DOES. It is the only place I have ever heard of that does.
I am now torn. Hooters is luring me in with Fried Pickles. I am afraid, I will go. At least to get them to go.
The Dreaded School Pictures
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