Hooters: Delightfully Wacky

 Once upon a time there was a man named Wayne Graczyk. You’ll meet him below under the pseudonym of “Gandalf the Grey.” Think Bob Newhart with a cheeseburger.

Wayne covered sports for The Japan Times for close to half a century, with his passion being baseball. He was short, soft-spoken and a pushover for stupid jokes, which – you know – I produce like gas. It was ordained that we become pals.

Alas, Wayne’s other passion was American junk food. How he stayed thin I do not know, but his diet no doubt contributed to his early passing, now approaching nine years ago.

I was typing at my computer one Thursday when I received an email with Wayne’s name in the title line. I assumed the mail to hold his suggestions for meeting up; we had a plan to catch a game together. Instead, the content was grim.

Wayne had died in his hotel room the night before, while on the road covering the Tokyo Giants.

His funeral was a who’s who of Japan’s foreign sports writers and related dignitaries. Bobby Valentine, former manager of the Mets and Red Sox, was there. Sadaharu Oh, Japan’s all-time great slugger, sent a telegram. Speakers told their favorite “Wayne” stories, with many having to do with Wayne and food.

Below, then is, my own Wayne story, the best I’ve got. And, yes, it’s about food.

Sort of.

Some notes:

Gandalf the Grey is from The Lord of the Rings. Shame on you, if you don’t know that.

The Hooters restaurant franchise entered Japan inauspiciously and then blossomed all over, sort of like cherries in the spring. The fad lasted close to ten years and then the shops started closing left and right. Today, only one remains, in the Ginza. The pilot restaurant, the one Wayne led me to, no longer exists.

“Grasshopper” is a reference to a 1970s-era American television program entitled Kung Fu, in which the hero sometimes went by that nickname.

The Japan Times title, below, is far longer than my own title, above. Why? Because my editor needed more words to fill space on the page. My title -- Hooters: Delightfully Wacky -- is perhaps the better fit.

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Feasting at the Hooters 'Breastaurant':

Wise Old Owls Ought to Know Better

Dec 6, 2013

Heroes, in a mythological sense, always need a guide — a spiritual beacon to lead them safely through the dark forest of doubt and then onwards to face the twin pressures of fear and fate.

"And for dinner," says my guide, "how about Hooters?"

Hooters? And heroism? Not a likely match, but perhaps you sense my dilemma:

How should I play my first visit to the land of hamburgers and hot pants? Should I go highbrow? Or low?

I turn to my guide for, uh, guidance.

"Well... Their motto is 'Delightfully tacky.'"

"I just don't want to be viewed as a sexist boob."

He looks at me; I look at him.

"Ninny! I meant ninny!"

"And what is a 'hooter?'" my wife, in her Japanese innocence, had sought just the night before.

"Hooter? Um, ha-ha… It means 'owl.' "

Pause.

"And what’s so special about owls?"

"Well, you know, owls are the only birds with two well-formed…"

I look at her; she looks at me.

"Ears."

"I can't believe you're going to write about breasts."

"I said 'ears!' "

"Your mouth said 'ears' but your eyeballs said 'breasts.' "

I squint and tell her that's my angle: body language. Sometimes mere words cannot cross culture. But body parts can.

I look at her; she looks at me.

"And," she says, "next you're going to tell me that some body parts cross culture better than others."

I hesitate; she doesn't.

"If not, why don't you write about collarbones? Or toenails?"

"When they get their own restaurant chain, I will. I promise."

"And who is this guide fellow?"

I think quick and toss out a name, something modest and unassuming, to protect my friend's identity.

"Gandalf the Grey."

And she buys it.

The next thing I know Gandalf and I are seated inside Hooters. The chain opened its first Japanese branch in Akasaka, Tokyo, in 2010 and has since added two more locations, one in the Ginza and one in Osaka.

Gandalf leans in and notes that U.S. branches are more "hootery."

Hooter, hootery, hooterest. Superlatives come easy, as any writer knows. But we heroes deal in action, not words.

And action we have, as a waitress now slides alongside. And there I am, faced head-on with the twin pressures of fear and fate.

Like any good hero, I maintain eye contact.

"Hi!" The girl is full of bounce. "Ready to order?"

Something has told her we are English speakers. Perhaps it's my eyeballs, which keep repeating, "Ears, ears, ears." Or, at least, I hope.

But my guide's interests are elsewhere.

"How big are your burgers?" He cups his hands. "This big?"

"No, no." She cups her hands back at him. "More like this big."

They compare cups. While I keep eye contact.

Outside, the clientele is lining up. The seats are already full — my guide had us arrive early — and now a queue is pressed against the window. I see hot breath on the glass.

And inside?

Inside, each table is busy ordering, eating, ogling… and not necessarily in that order. All the customers are men. Every single one — except for two office-lady types at a table nearby.

This big?

They must be lost. Or in love with hamburgers that are "this big."

Or perhaps they are just being practical, adding to their list of clothing they would never be caught dead in. Or hoping to find their supervisor hitting on a Hooters girl. For what better time to solicit a raise?

"Some foreign guys ask for my phone number," says our Hooters waitress, admitting that she gets hit upon. Sort of like how the ocean flows to the shore.

"But Japanese guys do it different. They give me their number, usually on a scrap of paper with their bill."

"And do guys of mixed nationality give you half their number and ask for half of yours?"

Now it is she who studies MY eyes. Trying to see, perhaps, if there’s anything behind.

"Never."

"I'm sorry. I have to ask these things. I'm a journalist. Next: Has anyone ever requested that you hoot like an owl?"

She then remembers she has customers at other tables.

"You're supposed to be tacky," says Gandalf, "not wacky."

But what does he know? He orders a hamburger at a "breastaurant." We harder-nosed journalists, however, cut straight to the chase: I go for chicken.

"What? All they have is wings?"

But of course there is more. Lots more. And all very American. In fact, the menu holds more cholesterol than the typical Japanese sees in a lifetime. Not that they come here for the food.

"No," says my guide, "it's the refills on soda."

With that, we click glasses, roll up our sleeves and dive in. In general, much of the food — and only the food — is hands-on.

"So what did you learn, Grasshopper?" asks my wife upon my return. "Do hooters cross culture?"

I am indeed more of a grasshopper than an owl, yet wise enough to play dumb when needed.

"Gosh… well… you know…"

"Don't tell me you need more research!?"

What can a hero say? The cultural forest is shadowy and full of owls.

I look at her; she looks at me. And she takes the final word.

"Just whooo do you think you're kidding?"

© Thomas Noah Wood

Gandalf the Grey

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