observation paper

The “Americana” of Restaurants  Carly  (Observation Paper)

At 2:03 p.m. on Sunday, the 18th of February, I am sure few 20-something, college females find themselves crunching through the snow on their way to Hooters. I, however, have found this wet, bone-chilling walk to 538 E. College Ave. a comfortable one. From my weeks of traveling this walk, I have become accustomed to nooks and crannies of Calder Way—the "bar" alley of State College. The timid, awkward demeanor that clouded me upon my first run-in with the brown and orange building has been lifted. As I walk towards the establishment, half tripping over an uneven part of the sidewalk, I pull open the heavy, metal door into what has become my cozy, research nest.

That day it appeared few had followed the same path through the front door. Breast cancer awareness donor signs greeted me on my way in. Patrons had obviously donated money for the cause and received recognition with their names on the donor signs. In true Hooters fashion, these donation signs were in the form of a women’s midsection. I chuckled and walked on. Usually around this time, the mixture of dirt and snow from the sole’s of patrons’ shoes has accumulated in the lobby. Surprised at the lack there of, I pulled my knitted, wool beanie off my head and reached for the next glass door. Before I could pat my hair down and unzip my jacket, the smell of beer, tobacco, and hot grease surrounded me. This arrival, however, was not complete until an average-height brunette working the bar straight ahead yelled, “Welcome to Hooters. You can seat yourself wherever you want.”

I stomped my feet on the drenched brown rug while unzipping my jacket in the vestibule. If you are familiar with Hooter’s, you are aware of the casual atmosphere and tacky artifacts that adorn these chain restaurants. This description does not suffice for those who have never had a Hooters’ experience. State College’s version had me positioned to look to the bar and kitchen as I entered. The wood floors and oak paneling that borders the restaurant gives it a homey, re-done basement feeling. To my right, a backwards L-shaped dining area held high-bar tables and orange-covered stools on the outskirts. Within the middle space, three “4-tops,” tables that hold up to four customers, adorned the middle of the backwards L-shaped space. To my immediate left, the hostess stand fit awkwardly in the middle of the room. Sideways and upside down Hooters menus, along with toothpicks and matches, found their place near a black, flat-screen computer cash register. A Hooters girl playfully sat on the hostess stand, swinging her tan legs up and down as if she was sitting on her kitchen counter at home. The draft of the coolers of six-packs on my far left caused me to gravitate to the bar.

I approached the 8-stool bar with a smile to several familiar faces. If one picks up anything while at Hooters, it is the idea that bad attitudes do not fair well in this establishment. Jenna, a Hooters girl I know fairly well, came around the back of the bar. She and the other Hooters’ girls were dressed in their usual Sunday attire—stretchy black tank tops, short black shorts, and the usual tan stockings, white tube socks, and white pumps. In previous “hang-outs” in Hooters, I was informed that these outfits, as opposed to the white tanks and orange shorts, were worn during busy days. Take that as you may, Jenna appeared as if she was going out for the evening. Her make-up and hair were perfectly in place and she smelled of flowers—not the grease and booze that was already soaking into my own clothing.

As Jenna entered the floor from behind the bar, she approached me with a smile and said, “Hang on a minute.” “Hey Rob,” she yelled. “Is this yours? Can I move it?” A thin man, with longer hair set back in a ponytail, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and said, “Sure Jenna. My bad.” He reached out, with his calloused and weathered fingers, and grabbed his North Face fleece from the stool. His hands reminded me of hands I know all too well—my fathers. My father is a laborer and has worked construction all of his life. After working years in that business, my father’s hands are rough and weathered looking. After seeing this, there was speculation that this man could possibly be in that line of work as well. Though I had never seen him before, I assumed he was a regular on Sundays. He fit right in with those at the bar in jeans and a faded sweatshirt. There was a calmness and friendliness about him in this atmosphere, as if he was almost escaping the “roughness” of his life. I politely said thank you and climbed onto my barstool.

I placed my black binder on the salt crumbled bar and got to work. As I pulled out my pen, I looked above and realized that Nascar was on all of the TV’s in the restaurant. I watched Jenna behind the bar and found myself shocked with the attentiveness of her to the customers and vice versa. In the hour that I sat there, the men did not have ask for another beer. Jenna took care of them better than a nurse takes care of a sick patient. But, she took care of them in a different way than I remember taking care of my customers as a waitress at Applebee’s. She would put her chin to her folded hand and laugh at their jokes. When I asked Corey, the manager, about requirements for this job the other day, Jenna jokingly chimed in, “We can’t get fat and we have to have had singing lessons.” The regulars responses—outbursts of laughter and “oh Jenna.” I began to wonder if the stereotype of “slutty” and “promiscuous” really defined Hooters’ girls. Maybe they really were just smart business women who entertained their customers and made them feel special. And in return, they received a good tip.

I looked behind my back right and noticed a family walking in from the cold. “Welcome to Hooters” was yelled and they were told to sit wherever they wanted to sit. The mother bashfully smiled and put her head down. The child, around the age of ten, walked nonchalantly next to his dad like a little boy in a candy shop. Unfazed by the skimpy outfits of the waitress or the foul language being used at the bar, there was a level of innocence to this boy rarely seen walking into this establishment. He was here because he was hungry, not because of the girls. I took a mental note to remind myself to turn around and watch the interaction this family has with their Hooters girl. But, with what was about to happen next no time was found to do this.

As I turned back around, I was greeted by a smile from a middle-aged man sitting to my left. Wrinkled with shorter graying hair and an overgrown mustache, the man chuckled at me with a husky laugh. He was more dressed up than regular Hooters’ customers—polo sweater with a starched, white collared shirt underneath, dark khakis and penny loafers with argyle socks peeking out from his pants. He didn’t have the calloused and weathered hands that appeared on many of the customers that walk in here after work. His voice portrayed that of a past smoker or one that still was by the sound of it. We started chit-chatting and I explained to him that I was doing a project where I studied a group for a semester. I told him I chose Hooters because I knew it would be fun and wouldn’t get old. He in turn told me he was from North Jersey visiting his daughter with his wife. We chatted several minutes longer to create a level of comfort before I asked why he enjoyed Hooters so much. I quickly asked him what he would like his pseudo name to be and he laughed saying, “I kinda like Shore Guy.”

As Shore Guy took a long sip from his beer, he said, “Ya know… cause it’s relaxing. It is an escape. You come here and these girls make you feel important. They wait on you like you are at a $100 a plate restaurant.” I recalled my being shocked at how attentive Jenna had been prior to her customers and nodded my head in agreement. Shore Guy then went on to say, “You have pretty girls, but yet look (he motioned to the family behind us) you can bring a family here. It’s a loose atmosphere and it’s casual. You know looking at pretty girls is usual for 20-something boys coming here. But, I can tell ya dear that does not change too much when you get to be my age.” After that comment, he smirked like a little kid who just sneaked a cookie before supper and stated, “It’s like the Americana of restaurants.”

Our conversation was disrupted by the shouts of Hooters girls belting out, “Attention to Hooters. This young man standing on a chair has never been to Hooters before. Let’s give him a Hooters welcome.” As the crowd hooted and hollered, I sat back in by chair and observed my surroundings. I saw the “Shore Guy” to my right put down a five dollar bill and give Jenna a hug before he departed. Brian to the left, the regular, lit up another cigarette and winked at the Hooters’ girl he was talking to. I turned around and saw one Hooters’ girl intently carrying on a conversation with two 20-something boys. She had propped herself right on a stool near the College Ave. side of the building. The family behind me had just finished up their wings and cleaned up their table in silence.

I got to thinking about this place many regard as a restaurant that sells sex. Maybe it was really the “Americana of restaurants.” Maybe it was a place where many could find themselves. Men could come to be entertained and “feel special,” families could come watch footballs games and eat wings, and 20-something men could enjoy the attention of a pretty face serving them food. These biases and stereotypes almost fell to the floor as a plate full of greasy, room-temp, curly fries were placed in front of me. I grabbed a paper towel off the wooden spool it was on and reached for the salt and ketchup. Maybe it wasn’t what everyone thought it was.