Hooters filed for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy protection this past spring. You know, the chain famous for its scantily clad waitress in orange shorts and owl tank tops. Currently, it is about $300 million in debt. When I heard this, I was surprised, not because I thought the business was thriving, but because I thought the breastaurant chain had gone bust long ago. While at its peak, there were 430 Hooters locations and franchises around the world, that number has decreased significantly. Currently, in New York state, there are only three Hooters left.

I only ate there once, mostly because I was young and broke. I didn’t see the obvious marketing of sex appeal as offensive. After all, growing up in the 70s and 80s meant constant exposure to breasts. Dolly Parton, The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, Farrah Fawcett, Loni Anderson, Daisy Duke — big busts were ubiquitous. And while I was acutely aware that I lacked that attribute, Hooters, founded in 1983, just seemed to be in tune with the times.

My lone foray into the owl tank top world was at the behest of an elderly woman whom I’ll call Marge. She needed a ride to the Plattsburgh Mall and had one additional request: she wanted to eat at Hooters. While many other dining choices were offered, Marge was insistent.

As she tottered into the dining room, Marge studied the photos of the bikini-laden waitresses as if she might know them. We were the only female customers. A few men glanced up from their meals but quickly lost interest. After all, the waitstaff was far more appealing to look at.

Marge’s purse took up a stool by itself, and her cane was propped up by the wall. Our waitress, Candy, was friendly as she handed us the laminated menus. While Candy’s look was quizzical, she was too professional to ask why two women would choose to dine in a breastaurant. I’m sure she leapt to her own conclusions, but who was I to dissuade her? I wasn’t sure why I was there myself.

The meal itself was forgettable. So much so that I couldn’t begin to tell you what I ate. The discomfort, on the other hand, still lingers in my memory. The owl’s eyes, strategically placed on those tight white t-shirts, seemed to be asking us, “Hey, granny and you, flat-chested woman, what are you doing here?”

The answer partially revealed itself when the check came.

Marge, showing cobra-like speed, reached out and gently pinned Candy’s wrist to the table. Before the poor girl could protest, Marge queried, “Candy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Candy agreed, but you could hear the nervousness in her voice.

“My granddaughter would really like to work here. Do you think you could give me an application, so I can bring it home to her?”

“Oh sure, no problem!” With obvious relief, the perky Candy reemerged, and she scuttled off to find the paperwork.

My eyes questioned Marge. Her granddaughters weren’t blessed with the physical assets to be a Hooters girl, probably because the oldest was eight. Marge just smiled and winked.

Later that afternoon, I dropped her off at her friend Hank’s house. She hobbled up the path, cane in one hand, application in the other. I trailed behind, lugging her oversized purse.

Marge was slightly out of breath when she reached his door. She paused for a moment before announcing, “Hank, I ate at Hooters today and look what they gave me! An application! They said they were going in a different direction. I’m perfect for their whole new look!”

Celebrities as disparate as Hulk Hogan and Kelly Clarkson have offered financial backing to save the beleaguered chain. But the restaurant group’s CEO, Neil G. Kiefer, recognizes that change is in order. He has said, “Whether it’s better food or something else, Hooters needs to give customers a better reason to stop by.”

Although she is no longer with us, Marge was definitely “something else.”

And, with our aging population, maybe her joke had an element of truth to it. If so, Marge could have been the first senior citizen Hooters girl. Now that would have been a reason to stop by.