Why the Loss of Hooters Hits So Hard

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My friend hinted, pointing to the server, who was dressed in the distinctive Hooters uniform of orange and white shorts and top, if I would like to make a request.

I would,” I responded, grinning amidst the numerous TV screens showcasing basketball. This was our usual pattern, glancing at the female staff serving us, only to look away when we were noticed. The “would you” game may not be fashionable anymore, but I’m certain it’s still practiced. Today’s teenagers might objectify others in a more politically correct manner. Nevertheless, it was our shared tradition, two ’90s teens attempting to appear mature.

Over the last year, I’ve noticed Hooters restaurants closing at an alarming rate, with clusters shutting down simultaneously. The final blow came in March when the company filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, drowning under a debt of $376 million. Inflation, increased food costs, a flood of competitors in the wing market, waning interest in casual dining, and a series of lawsuits and controversies seem to have contributed to its financial struggles. On June 4th alone, over 30 locations called it quits.

For those who haven’t tasted Hooters wings yet, they offer an unusual blend of crispiness, chicken, and sauce, with a crunch factor that exceeds typical buffalo wings. The drums, often composed of more than half breading, might initially seem disappointing, but they prove to be extraordinarily delicious. Some traditionalists may complain about the decline in quality, but the wings taste better than ever. If there has been any change, it’s in the customers – we visit today, burdened with memories, seeking a flavor that loses some of its potency with each encounter.

In 1999, I completed high school, coinciding with a surge in popularity for the restaurant chain that debuted its first branch in 1983 – often referred to as “breastaurants.” As a tall, comic-loving, and socially awkward teenager, sports were not my thing, and I preferred Sarah McLachlan’s melodies over Nirvana’s grunge. Despite being friendless throughout my school career, during my senior year, I learned the knack of self-deprecating humor, earning me the title “most changed” in our upstate New York high school’s senior superlatives.

For my teenage peers and myself, an invitation to Hooters held significant importance akin to a bar mitzvah. It signified acceptance among the guys, some of whom had previously kissed girls or engaged in weightlifting, using heavier weights than mere bars.

The men who welcomed me were quite ordinary, some of them even played football. They weren’t star players or anything, as far as I could tell. I didn’t ask about their positions or care to know. They were just regular team members, perhaps defenders or linemen? They wouldn’t be the type to date beauty queens or star in a film with James Van Der Beek, but being around them made me feel like an extra in Varsity Blues. In truth, I was probably more like Rachel Leigh Cook in She’s All That-I got a makeover and suddenly looked like the star of the show. Among this group, I was their comic relief, their team mascot.

Absolutely, when my friends and I engaged in the so-called “would you” game, which, for clarification, revolved around sexual topics, I never harbored any desire to participate in such activities with anyone. This wasn’t merely because our waitress showed disinterest towards a pair of overly enthusiastic boys, but because I identified as largely asexual. The thought of a girl kissing me would trigger panic. Participating in the “would you” game was my worst fear. However, I could still admire a woman’s attractiveness and enjoyed looking at them.

There was often a guessing game about who the waitress would choose to sit beside when she grew weary from her serving duties. This included serving food and giving attentive glances. We didn’t consider that the reason for us being seated with her was because it allowed her to pocket our entire earnings, which were derived from our initial jobs: working as a stockboy at the local grocery store, or in my case, working at my father’s wallpaper shop.

Over time, we each completed high school, pursued college, parted ways from the grocery and wallpaper industries, and found employment at the mall. For me, it was at the Watch Station, right beside Hooters. It turned out simpler to have a waitress join me for company, especially as our team expanded and some lively ladies joined in on the fun. Eventually, one of my female friends landed a job waiting tables there, and Hooters transitioned from a spot I frequented for pro-wrestling with the guys, into a location I visited during work hours to see her.

It was as if everything in the world was perfect when she and my closest friend seemed to be on the verge of dating. On weekends, we’d often head to whichever house whose parents weren’t home, drinking Bud Light and Mike’s Hard Lemonade while City High played in the background, asking what we would do next. My best friend and her female companion were flirting openly throughout this time, sometimes hiding away in private areas and definitely sharing a few passionate kisses. Meanwhile, I would pretend to be drunk and hide my glasses in the couch cushions as a fun game with sober Jay in the family room.

They never seemed to become a couple, despite spending countless hours in his car and wandering the mall together, much like many of us ’90s kids did. They would occasionally play a game of “would you” as they chatted with others, taking an interest in each other’s preferences. Even after their brief relationship ended, they continued to speak highly of one another, showing genuine concern for each other. It’s possible that they simply moved on to other relationships. It could also be that they were too young at the time. This unresolved question about their relationship has always left me wondering, and maybe it did them as well. However, discussing it now feels too emotionally taxing.

She settled down, had children, and relocated about 20 minutes away, which felt as if she’d crossed a border into another state. After having a child, she moved to an entirely new state, which seemed like another nation. Despite my friend quitting at Hooters, I continued to frequent it for the wings. When that particular Hooters closed down, a new one popped up nearby. I took my partner there, who eventually became my spouse. Together we had kids and I brought them along too. Tragically, last year, my longtime friend passed away at 43 due to Stage 4 Colorectal cancer. At his funeral, his family opted for Hooters wings. In late May of this year, another close friend was diagnosed with Stage 4 inoperable cervical cancer at the age of 41.

There were whispers that Hulk Hogan could acquire Hooters, but that idea faded when he passed away recently. Some establishments are currently undergoing a transformation, aiming to reduce their risqué atmosphere and create a more welcoming environment for families. Over the Father’s Day weekend, I found myself at my local Hooters, which is still operating (for now), surrounded by my wife and four children. The experience was so heartwarming that I almost started crying into my meal.

In the song “The Difficult Kind” by ’90s icon Sheryl Crow, she sings that “there’s nothing quite like regret to make you feel alive,” for me, it’s not regret but the experience of loss that serves as a powerful reminder of my existence.

Despite cherishing my life, my family, and my beloved pets, there’s a wistful longing for the carefree days of my youth that I can no longer reclaim. It seems as though every 40-something experiences this kind of melancholy. Though I don’t yearn to be the reckless, insecure young man I once was, sipping drinks at the bar, I miss the sense of belonging and acceptance I felt when I first sat on that towering orange stool. I long for my old friends to return. I long for a time when the people who passed seemed distant, not the close companions I hold dear; it’s been over two decades since our Hooters days, but it feels like we’re still young adults, and death has taken so much from us.

I took a series of photos at our Father’s Day celebration, one of which featured my wife feeding our newborn while I looked on. I sent these pictures to a friend, jokingly commenting about my wife’s cleavage being visible in a Hooters-like setting. At the time, my friend was frantically preparing for chemotherapy and losing weight. In the near future, doctors would insert stents into her kidneys, and she would move back in with her father to receive care from him and her son.

Upon seeing the images, I instantly exclaimed “Wow, I adore it!!!” What’s interesting is she addressed me using my surname, a term I haven’t heard in a long time, reminding me of high school days.

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2025-08-06 19:06