This just in: Hooters restaurants have developed a knack for high-tailing it out of the neighborhood.
We used to bike to our beloved Buffalo Wing-serving sports bar, even shotgun-attend as our foremost paternal influences’ passenger princes prior.
Then, one day, we were finally able to drive there ourselves—only to find that it had been turned into a Starbucks.
Yes, Hooters off LIE Exit 58, RIP since 2013, we’re talking to you.
Fast-forward to 2025: Hooters corporate made like Michael Scott when they declared Chapter 11 bankruptcy earlier this year.
Ripple effect: all across the nation, a mass casualty of appetite-harpooning proportions has transpired: the folding and foreclosing of one Hooters after another—including over 40 this month alone.
C’mon. Don’t do that.
For reasons that escape us, it’s considered a tad taboo these days to exhibit a shameless display of passion for the chain that, for our money—and we rarely have any because of how often we frequent the Hoot House—still serves the best bleu cheese in all the land.
Even a mega movie star turned unofficial spokesman for the bodacious brand like serial pick-up baller Adam Sandler hasn’t made an in-film visit to Hoot HQ since he and Drew Barrymore’s rom-comical blind date during the scorching hot open of 2014’s criminally underrated “Blended.” And hey, while we’re on one, whatever happened to Jonah Hill’s John Daly biopic? Though we digress as much as we profess and digress.
Thankfully for the 516 and the 631, there is a house in Farmingdale—they call the Owl Dome.
Appropriately mere yards away from Adventureland, Long Island’s last Hooters left alive is still making enough of a buck to maintain its operative post, the franchisee told local media.
At any given moment within the most popular amusement park on the block for those who outgrew rollercoaster rides but never gave up the curly-fried linger in their eyes, you can turn to see autographed photos galore from a bygone time called yesteryear.
Snapshots of wonderfully—not woefully—tank-topped waitresses posing with evergreen A-listers whose celebrity is synonymous with infectious charm and championship energy: Vince Vaughn, how you doin’ buddy? / Pass me a moist-towelette, Tiger Woods. Several.
Suddenly, you’re taken back to your childhood.
It was a place where the dads who volunteered to coach Little League or took teams following a big win.
It was especially a place to flock to after suffering a great loss, because what cheers a kid up more than dourly denial? I see the hardship you're sending me, and raise you a medium rare cheeseburger with not one, not two, but three perfect Pepsi's (everyone knows the calories don’t count when you just played a diggity double-header in 99-degree weather).
However, if asked, you indeed proved victorious at that day's game. After all, “there’s no crying in baseball!” as Tom Hanks exclaimed in 1992’s “A League of Their Own.” And there's no tears shed at what pop culture would define as the opposite of a She Shed—perhaps a He Heaven?
It was a place where kids lit up with glee like a Christmas tree while egged on by their peers and staff alike to get up on the table and hula hoop with Hooters' finest on their birthday—even if it wasn’t their birthday, thanks Uncles who aren't really our Uncles.
It was a place called that home away from home for all those who appreciate live sports, wings, the little things and the big…picture.
At least in Farmingdale, it’s still that place. We’ll see you there.
We’ll be the ones with ear-to-ear grins—not basking in jubilation because it happened. Nor crying because it’s over, as “Short ‘n Sweet” and “Man’s Best Friend” super-force Sabrina Carpenter soothe-and-soulfully sang during the first of consecutive summers she rightfully christened hers.
We’re smiling, because it’s still happening; both at 25 Smith Street, and in our hearts. So long as we don’t get a string of celery stuck in our throats. For if there’s no Dr. Moonlight Graham there to save us, we may just have to radically change our diets before our favorite eatery up and becomes a field of screams per an inopportune mouthful of misery.
Just kidding. We don’t enjoy riots. Only quiet ones.
Now come [sic] on, feel the noise [sicker]. Do do that.