Yesterday mid-afternoon, Robert and Laurent conspired to force Ren and me to accompany them to Chinatown, where they forced us to eat dead chicken wings at a really loud, noisy, and dirty place called Hooters. It was a bad choice of times, since there was some sort of football game on the television, and the restaurant was filled with semi-intoxicated men whooping and hollering at the top of their lungs at who-knows-what sort of events.
As expected, the service was mediocre at best, with us having to ask for drink refills and our individual orders coming in pieces, rather than all together, and several things we had to specifically request again. I'd long heard that this chain has a reputation for not bringing everything ordered, thinking the patrons would be so drunk on beer and intoxicated with the mammaries of the wait staff that they wouldn't notice what they did or didn't eat or drink. Our waitress was comely enough with exotically beautiful hazel eyes, but fine service was not her forte.
The food was so-so. Not bad, but also not good enough to have to endure that awful atmosphere often. I had some chicken wings and curly fries with iced tea. Nothing special. Robert had a dozen oysters on the half shell (once they finally showed up), some extra hot chicken wings, a huge stein of beer, and some kind of girly cocktail called a Blonde Ambition. Laurent had a "buffalo (chicken) burger" 911, chicken wings, and a Yeunglng. Ren had a "normal" buffalo (chicken) burger and curly fries.
Finally, the meal was over so we could leave. Robert ran off to go to the health club, leaving Laurent, Ren, and me to our own devices. We eventually went off to have tea and cakes at the Bon Wit, a much more civilized ritual than Robert's sports bar.
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