Don't Hate on the Cheese

I worked in restaurants for years. First in college as a way to maximize my earnings to time ratio. Then after college when I realized my English degree was going to take me pretty much nowhere. Then as my life for most of my marriage. The work took different shapes as I aged, morphing from college bars to fancy fine dining to in-house catering. By the time I left the business I was pretty much only serving in people’s house for the parties they threw. But even through the changing environments, one thing remained constant.

The shit we expect servers to wear is just asinine.

At Friday’s they made me wear a fucking costume. At the Bar and Restaurant I had to wear slink. Once I landed in fine dining I had to wear a suit. A SUIT. And once it was Bistro land I was trapped in khaki pants and button downs. I have no idea how this ended up becoming a server’s uniform, but whoever thought of it needs a good smack upside the head.

First. Shit’s ugly, y’all. Just ugly and nobody looks good in it. I worked with smoking hot guys who should be able to carry that off and couldn’t. Its just a bad look—as evidenced by the fact that pretty much nobody is kicking around in khaki pants and a tucked in denim shirt by choice. Especially when they have to run around in a hot kitchen and handle plates all night. Like, come on. But that’s what we wore and from gig to gig you could be sure that many of these elements would remain the same.

When I quit for good, I got rid of all those clothes. Except for one emergency uniform that I kept around for the apocalypse. (I’m not sure of the logic behind that. If it were a real apocalypse, I wouldn’t even think about serving food, y’all...but still) I kept one pair of dress pants, one pair of khaki pants, one button down black shirt with a mandarin collar, my cumberbund and bow tie, and 3 aprons of varying lengths and colours. If shit got tough in my life, and I had to go back to slinging dishes, I didn’t want to have to go out and buy any kind of new uniform stuff.

I never did end up going back, thank god. But I do periodically “Cater” (read, serve and wash dishes for small small parties) at two women’s houses. I do it because it amuses me, I like them, it is almost zero effort, and the pocket cash makes me happy. For some reason, I always go back in my old uniform. Black dress pants, button down shirt and bistro apron. There is literally no good reason for this—the job does not require any type of uniform. But habits die hard, so here I am in some dumb ass wool blend button pants and a cotton poplin men’s dress shirt washing fucking dishes.

I’m uncomfortable to say the least. I live I Florida, so its hot. And I have my hands in water all the time, so why do I have on long sleeves? Furthermore, I’m a shapely girl. I never wear pants with buttons. Hell, I rarely wear pants at all. I live in dresses and skirts and yoga pants and have mastered the fine art of doing everything in them. Shit, I re-wired some electrical in my bonus room in a damn skirt. So, remind me….why am I in dress pants again?

Because somewhere along the line that’s what I was taught to believe was appropriate attire in which to serve. It didn’t matter if I was uncomfortable. It didn’t matter if it flattered me. This is what was done. It wasn’t until just last week when I caught sight of myself in the mirrored doors of the elevator bank that I realized how shitty that is.

I look awful in that outfit. I look fat. I look dumpy. My body looks great in A-lines, nipped waists, flowing skirts, fitted tops, V-necks. Its just what flatters my shape. In men’s style pants with men’s style shirts, I look….bad. So right away my mind went to how I was going to have to lose weight so I didn’t look so bad. How I was going to have to limit meals, cut carbs, exercise more, do all this stuff to make sure the next time I found myself in an outfit I didn’t like I wouldn’t feel so fat and dumpy.

And then I caught myself. Thank god. Because that was seriously stupid thinking right there and a great example of how programming lingers. I don’t have to change my body; I just have to change my pants.

Duh.

So let me tell you about those yoga dress pants. Buy them. They are tacky as shit, and your grandmama probably owned the 1970 version of these same damn pants. But they are comfortable. They fit. They flatter. And they completely pass for “real” pants. So its a full on win win. I tossed out those wool blend, button up pants the same night I caught myself hating myself and ordered these. The next time I worked, you know what? They worked for me.

That night I ate the cheese, folks. I ate all the cheese and my pants didn’t give me shit for it. Which is as it should be. And since I don’t know how to make real cheese (outside of some SUPER basic cottage cheese), I’m going to pass along my recipe for Nut Queso.

Oh trust me on this one. And then eat it all.