So a day or two ago I was taking an exceptionally bizarre position for a gentleman to take, supporting the right of the Hooters food franchise to discriminate against men. Well hey, I believe in womens’ equality. We’ve been oppressing ’em for five thousand years, give or take, guys…I know this is true because I grew up in the 1970’s, and I spent my childhood being told so. The “pendulum” has to swing “the other way.” Time to pay our dues. And I can think of no better way than to allow Hooters to turn the male waitress applicants away at the door; it’s only fair. We need to suffer so we can understand what the fairer sex has been going through, since the time of Abraham.
Our tirade was noticed by blogger friend Dustbury, and since people actually do read that blog over there, a lively debate seems to have erupted — or at least germinated — about the psychology of the two sexes when it comes to ordering food served by appealing specimens of the sex preferred. Do the ladies find handsome men in tiny uniforms, as appealing as the men find girls in skimpy clothing? Would it alter their food preferences? It must be so; as a child of the 1970’s, I was repeatedly told that, too. Men and women are exactly alike. Actually they didn’t state that word for word. But anybody who asserted anything outside of that, was beaten into the ground, ended up biting dirt with a boot in their neck…because hey, it was the 1970’s. Gotta crack some free-speech eggs to make a utopia omelette.
But real life keeps butting in. I know of no restaurant called “pickles,” at which horny housewives can order a glass of wine and a key lime pie served up by a stud in a thong. If there is such a thing, it hasn’t opened nearly as many outlets as the orange place with the owl.
But let’s leave that aside for a minute. I’ve noticed something about Hooters over the years —
…when people talk about it, the conversation always turns to the food.
I wish people wouldn’t trash Hooters’ food. True, the customers don’t go there for it. But in a way, they do…I mean, think about it…girls in skimpy outfits serving you cold beer and NO FOOD. Blech. So it seems unfair, to me. You can see the cooks back there. They’re working hard. I’ve never seen one yet that looks underfed. Maybe I didn’t notice (my attention, consistently, seems to be drawn elsewhere). But Hooters food is not bad food. People say it is, but what’s going to happen if you put it in a taste test against other foods?
KFC, f.k.a. Kentucky Fried Chicken, for example. It’s cooked up for little kids. I find, with my advancing years, “Original Recipe” is becoming less and less compatible to my digestive system. And I’m not talking about adventures in the restroom that are kindly bowdlerized from polite conversation. I don’t make it that far. Two big pieces are over the top for me. Something in the oils has my stomach yelling upstairs “If anything else is coming down that chute, it’d better be something different or you won’t like the way I hand it back.”
Bottom line — it’s true, I don’t go to Hooters for the food. It’s a tiny, tiny slice on that pie chart about why I go to Hooters. Bu-u-ut…if you want to complain about Hooters food, how about a taste test? What’s more appealing to you, polishing off a two-pound plate of Hooters hot wings, or a two-pound plate of KFC? I’d prefer the hot wings if they’re “naked” coated with Teriyaki. I think most people would. And yet, nobody ever complains about KFC.
The teeny waitress uniforms. They have nothing at all to do with the quality of the food. But they get everyone complaining about the food when they otherwise would not.
Humans are funny, funny people. We make perfect sense if we aren’t studied very carefully. But the closer you zoom in, it’s like one question is answered and three more pop up.