410 Market St, San Diego, CA 92101, (619) 235-4668

The ex and I visited Hooters during our last jaunt to San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter. It was that time of the day between lunch and dinner where not much was open. He was fussing to watch some ESPN and I needed to eat something to tide me over until dinner (the pretzels on the Southwest flight, just didn't cut it). I'll admit I wasn't forced to go in (no arm twisting), but I was a bit curious to see what all the hype was about. I pictured something trashy with slithering pole dancers and Whitesnake blaring, but in reality it was just a tackily decorated beer-n-wings joint with extremely unflattering, polyester uniforms that looked like they would chafe (what's with the suntan colored pantyhose under the hideous, Bozo orange boy briefs?).

We had two waitresses during our visit. Our first waitress, Jackie, was super cool and chatty. Turns out that she was from Vacaville and we launched into a full scale conversation about the Vacaville outlets, much to the ex's chagrin. When I decided to purchase a tee for my teenage nephew, she rallied the other wait staff to each sign the shirt. I'm sure my sister-in-law in New Mexico appreciated the fact that we presented our 15 year old, hormone-infused nephew with a tee that was emblazoned with phrases such as "Randy, you make me randy!" and signed by a dozen busty Hooter girls; but screw her, our nephew loved it and dubbed me the coolest aunt ev-ah! Teenage boys are an odd breed.

Since we caught Jackie on the tail end of her shift, we were traded off to a second Hooterette for the latter part of the service. This 5'2, buck o'five weighing (all boob) nymph came bouncing over to introduce herself and chirps that she heard we were from Sac...well, guess what? She is too. We chat about Sac a bit and it turns out she and I went to the same high school. She throws me a sugary smile and cheerfully announces that she graduated in something like 2002 and maybe we know some of the same people? I choke on my beer, glare over the chicken strips and think darkly, "Yeah, maybe I went to school with your MOM!" The ex is smirking as he quietly turns his chair to watch the ball game.

Final tally: +1 star for the clean interior, average beer and the place not being as vulgar as I thought it'd be, +1 star for our cool waitress Jackie and no stars for the greasy chicken strips. I, however, deserve 5 stars for not reaching over and throttling that 21 yr old Hoot-chie for making me feel older than dirt.
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