This was written in 2004, when Hooters opened its restaurant across the street from Grauman's Chinese Theatre. They now have have Happy Hour specials and no washroom attendant.

An Open Letter to Hooters Restaurant of Hollywood

Dear Hooters:

As a hot-wing-loving, testosterone-fueled sports fan, I can’t think of a better combination – Hollywood and Hooters - so I’m thrilled that you recently opened a restaurant across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

The decor is the same as every Hooters I’ve ever been in, from the photos of mildly embarrassed B-list celebrities on the wall, to the Hooters Girls, who are perky even when forced to stand on barstools and dance to “YMCA.”

What’s surprised me, however, are the subtle ways you’ve taken your so-called “delightfully tacky,” moderately-priced, sports-themed, chain restaurant and transformed it into an upscale Hollywood eatery. It’s now almost the perfect place to take a date!

I love the giant security guards at the door in their tailored suits, gold jewelry and walkie-talkies plugged into their ears. All you need is a velvet rope and you’ve passed Bouncer 101.

A parking valet on weekends? Yes! While your neighbors, Hamburger Hamlet and Baja Fresh, have free validated parking in a structure around the block, you’ve opted to go a classier, more expensive, route. I can’t wait to impress a date by pulling up to your restaurant and handing the valet the keys to my pickup.

Most Hooters have Happy Hour specials. They treat regulars with respect, and by respect, I mean discounts on wings and beer from 4-to-7pm. Not you! Upscale Hollywood eateries don’t have Happy Hour! And who needs regulars when you can survive on the slack-jawed tourists who press their noses to your windows all night long?

My favorite addition, however, is in your bathroom. A washroom attendant! Genius!

You see, I used to go to sports bars and actually watch sports on TV. I would rush the john during commercials. If I had had my way, urinals would be replaced with long troughs like they have in the men’s rooms at Dodger Stadium, so one can get in and out that much quicker.

But your washroom attendant has changed my thinking. As a human obstacle that I’m forced to dodge, he reminds me to slow down and enjoy my bathroom experience.

He’s lined cologne bottles along the sink. Thank you, sir. The CK1 on my wrist just might mask the “Three Mile Island” hot sauce I dripped on my sleeve.

And bowls of mints and chocolates! Who doesn’t want an Altoid that’s been a men’s room for a month?

Still, there are some problems. I don’t need a washroom attendant reminding me to wash after I flush. I’ve been washing my hands after I flush, almost without fail, since I was 30.

Also, there’s the issue of tipping. Isn’t it enough for him to enjoy the prestige that comes from being a washroom attendant at a Hooters? I save my tip money for the Hooters Girls, who have to wear skimpy outfits and put up with leering, stupid Raiders fans all night long. That’s hard work. Unless the attendant starts wearing tight Lycra tops and orange hot pants, he’s never getting a tip from me. Sorry.

Finally, if you really want to be upscale, you need to add martinis – or any hard liquor – to your beer-and-wine-only alcohol list. I’m sure that’s the reason, and the only reason, cool Hollywood babes keep turning me down whenever I invite them to see your Hooters.

Sincerely,

Dog Davis

Hollywood (adjacent), California