I was having lunch with my wife Maggie and telling her how much trouble I've been having deciding on topics for my column lately. A sensitive guy
has lunch at Hooters"I guess it doesn't really matter," I said. "When push comes to shove, I can write 600 words about anything."
She wasn't interested in hearing about it. She was digging into her mixed plate at the Aloha Tower Marketplace. "Why don't you write about my lunch?" she said. "I have laulau, teriyaki chicken and Korean vegetables. That's about as much cultural diversity as you can fit on a plate."
This was her choice of where to eat, not mine. I don't get out of the office often and I figured I could do better than a food court. Maybe grab a burger with garlic fries at GB's or splurge on penne with smoked salmon in cream sauce at Trilussa.
I even made a pitch for Hooters. Maggie looked at me like I was insane.
"There's no way I'm eating at a place called Hooters," she said.
"Why?" I asked. "You got something against owls?"
I should make clear that my interest in Hooters has more to do with the excellent chicken wings than the lovely waitresses. Men feel compelled to make such disclaimers because hooters are a sensitive subject. That a place like Hooters even exists gives some women the idea that all men are pigs.
Well, it's not as easy as some women think for a sensitive guy like me to go into a place like Hooters and enjoy a plate of chicken wings. I never know how to act when women so generously show me their breasts. Should I applaud? Say thank you? Nod my head in approval? Or should I blush and avert my eyes?
A few weeks earlier, I had tried to have my chicken wings without being politically incorrect by ordering them to go.
I marched up to the greeter at the door, looked her in the eye -- letting my gaze drop no lower -- and coolly asked her where to order takeout. She showed me to the bar. I looked the bar lady directly in the eye and ordered my chicken wings.
Then the flaw in my plan became painfully apparent: What was I supposed do to for the 10 minutes that it would take to cook my chicken?
If you're eating in at a table, you can talk to a companion, sip water, futz with the dessert menu -- even do some subtle people watching without drawing much attention.
But when you're standing there by yourself waiting for a takeout order, you stick out. It doesn't help that the only place to stand is in the middle of the main staging area for Hooters girls.
I nervously read the bumper stickers on the wall. I marveled at the clothesline system that delivered orders to the cooks. I was trying desperately to look like anything but what I looked like: a desperate guy out for a cheap thrill.
THE bar lady took pity on me and struck up a conversation. Just look her in the eye, I told myself. Pay it no mind when she flaps her arms, jiggles all over and screams "bawwwwk, bawk, bawk" every time an order for chicken wings comes in.
So I sat in the food court, watching Maggie enjoy every bite of her mixed plate and accepting that there would be no chicken wings that day. I picked at a cold calzone.
At least I can take consolation from the fact that when I finish this sentence, I will have written exactly 600 words about Maggie's lunch.
