Missoula News

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Hooters in Missoula: More Than A Mouthful, Still Not Quite Enough

By Patia Stephens, Guest Writer, 8-11-08

All photos by Patia Stephens. For more, check out Patia's Flickr page.

I couldn’t decide what to wear to the grand opening of Hooters in Missoula. A push-up bra and high heels? Or tie-dye and Birkenstocks? I ended up wearing a push-up bra and my black sparkly Birkenstocks. Because that’s just the kind of girl I am.

My friend Rebecca had written a blog post, ”Coming Soon to Missoula: Tits!,” back in January that sparked a lively discussion, including several comments from Steve Edgar, the owner of the new Hooters restaurant. He generously extended an invitation to Rebecca and a guest to experience Hooters’ hospitality in person, which is how I wound up attending last night’s VIP party.

Rebecca and I aren’t the man-hating feminists some would like us to be—in fact, we are both drawn to men like moths to flame—but we are blessed (or cursed, depending on your point of view) with famine-resistant genes and unabashed opinions. Aside from possessing breasts, we have little in common with the “All-American Cheerleader/Surfer-Girl-Next-Door” types that Hooters hires.

We arrived at 3050 Stockyard Road fashionably late, our courage bolstered by the bottle of pinot grigio we’d consumed at my place beforehand. As we walked under the giant orange Hooters sign beckoning drivers off Reserve Street, we were greeted at the door by a bevy of Hooters Girls and members of the University of Montana Dance Team. Inside, the restaurant was throbbing with music, neon signs and apparently, most of the UM athletics department. Once we were seated, our waitress offered us free booze, including “Flat Tire, I mean, Fat Tire” beer and “Cha-bliss, I mean, cha-blee” wine. It was endearing.

In fact, in the course of the evening, the Hooters Girls won us over. They were cute, sweet and surprisingly honest. One tiny blonde volunteered, “We’re not waitresses, we’re entertainers.” Sure enough, in between delivering platters of chicken wings and fried shrimp, the young women sat and chatted with guests, sang, hula-hooped and did the Bunny Hop.

One waitress—I mean, entertainer—muttered that there ought to be a contest to guess which Hooters Girls’ breasts were real. Indeed, I spotted several sets with that tell-tale hyper-round look, like grapefruit halves covered in skin.

When I asked another Hooters Girl what sizes their tank tops and orange short-shorts came in, she replied with a roll of her eyes, “Small, extra-small and extra-extra-small.”

Accordingly, the Hooters Employee Handbook states that, “Only approved Orange Hooters Girl Shorts are to be worn, sized to fit, and should NOT BE SO TIGHT THAT THE BUTTOCKS SHOW.” (Their emphasis.) Failure to comply “may result in discipline up to and including termination.”

Although I’m slightly offended to be among the 99 percent of American women who would probably not qualify for a job at a Hooters breastaurant—I mean, restaurant—I honestly didn’t feel threatened by the Hooters Girls. In fact, I hardly compared myself to them at all, because they seemed like an entirely different species.

The company itself takes a wink-wink-nudge-nudge approach to selling sex, stating that “Hooters does have an owl inside its logo and uses an owl theme sufficiently to allow debate to occur over the meaning’s intent.” Meanwhile, it requires Hooters Girls to sign a waiver acknowledging that “the work environment is one in which joking and innuendo based on female sex appeal is commonplace.”

In its 25 years of operation, the Florida-founded and now Atlanta-based chain has been the target of multiple sexual harassment and discrimination lawsuits, several of which it addresses on its ”About Hooters” web page. The page also asserts that, “To Hooters, the women’s rights movement is important because it guarantees women have the right to choose their own careers, be it a Supreme Court Justice or Hooters Girl.”

Unless, of course, you wear size medium or larger.

Or as Rebecca said, “Ruth Bader Ginsburg missed her calling.”

Oh, and the food? Not bad—but not good, either. The wings and fried shrimp were mediocre, and I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a blander curly fry. Mostly, I’m disappointed that the chain’s fried pickles weren’t among the freebies served at the VIP party. (I might have to go back, just to try them.) However, my Flat Tire, er, Fat Tire beer was nice and cold.

All in all, it was a fun, if somewhat surreal two hours.

Rebecca and I emerged—wined, dined and overstimulated—into the parking lot. The horizon was lit up with huge, glowing orange and purple clouds in a spectacular Big Sky sunset. Somehow still unfulfilled, we decided to head downtown and finish off our night with ice cream at the Big Dipper. Waiting in line with a dozen or so people, a couple of happy dogs and more than a few pairs of Birkenstocks, we savored the unique flavor of a Missoula summer evening.

Check out more from Patia Stephens, a long-time Missoula writer and blogger, on A Drivel Runs Through It at www.patiastephens.com.

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