They eat big burgers and buckets of oysters and piles of greasy fries; and they whoop and applaud when Katrina tries to do five Hula-Hoops at once; and they’re not shy about slathering on the hot sauce and mayo; and there’s a guy happily sawing into his cheesesteak; and there’s a guy chomping on a glistening load of chicken wings; and there’s a guy ripping off a hunk of his sandwich and dipping it into a puddle of ketchup; and there’s a guy using his fifth napkin of the meal, this time to wipe off a smear that’s making his chin shiny; and there’s a guy who’s sitting by himself blowing smoke rings while watching the Girls go by; and there’s a guy on a wobbly path to the restroom, unaware that he has about 10 feet of string attached to his belt loop with a raw shrimp on the end; and there’s a guy celebrating his birthday, which means his Hooters Girl is tying a coffee filter with two balloons attached to it to his head; and here come some guys who are on their way out, their meal over, their guts expanded, their tongues working their teeth, trailing onion fumes as they ease past Janet, who’s standing by the door, smelling of perfume. She’s the hostess this shift. She loves being the hostess. “When I’m hostessing,” she says, watching Katrina walk past a table and the guys regarding her rear end, “I can see everything.”

I am beginning to understand why this Finkel fellow won a “genius” award.

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