ou can take your Manolo Blahniks off for this one. Yep. And save those stylish latex pants for Truffles. Basically a burger and chicken wing joint, Hooters is a converted auto shop, with sliding glass door panes that leave the pedestrian traffic in full view of the goings-on of the place.

If you are confronted with orange short-shorts, skimpy tank tops, $6 pints, $12 pitchers, and truly awful half-price appetizers — You’re definitely at Hooters. Unfortunately the hotness of the waitresses is hit or miss depending on the day of the week you go and when the winter season approaches they bundled up accordingly!

The crowd (with nary a lumberjack shirt or down vest in sight) seems to be a pleasant mix of sports bar types and vaguely collegiate or nostalgic collegiate types in their mid- twenties to thirties. A girl in a 1920s bob and cuffed vintage jeans saunters up to the bar, plunks down her leopard tote, throws her arms around one of the boys, and asks flirtatiously, "Am I still 86'd?"--obviously referring to a previous night's high jinx.

Generally, when a menu leads off with a nacho platter, hopes for an exciting meal tend to dissipate quickly. Hooter’s themed-continental menu isn't so much fun, kitschy or comforting as grossly mediocre. While a simple burger is fine, a steak is virtually tasteless. Everyone knows the wings - a Hooters staple.

Go for a drink or to soak up the crowd, but save your dinner money for Avalon, or for similar price ranged eateries with similar sized breasts, take a walk down to Queen Street.