Pushing the Wrong Button

By Danielle Lattuga, 1-10-08

I don’t do button downs.  Or is it button ups?  Whatever, I don’t do either.  I’ve endured a few uniforms in my time, but thankfully, I can say that I’ve actually gotten by better than most in my league, of servers that is.  I never had to do polyester stripes.  Not even a maroon collared short sleeve, and most fortuitously, the only version of “flare” I’ve been subject to is that of my own invention—big, distinct jewelry.  I have avoided one of the worst offenses in my book, that of the bowtie.  It’s fine if a woman wears a bowtie, but only if that woman likes to wear a bowtie.  Annie Lennox comes to mind. She rocks.

This does not mean that my stubborn Italian head has not butt up against that of my employer’s from time to time, over the uniform.  I’m an individual, and tend to have a strong desire to express that individuality, at least to some measure, through what I am wearing or using to cover up what’s underneath.  Yes, I’ve refrained from wearing a nose ring so as not to terrify the parents of the children I used to watch over, ever so closely, at daycare.  I’ve also worn long sleeves and pants, to conceal any number of pretty and harmless tattoos, although some might argue that tattoos are harmful, just by their very nature. 

But it’s the button down that remains ever present in my mind as the bane of work attire.  The khaki vest with the completely non-breathable back follows closely in second, but still did not commit any major offense when donned on this body.

It’s that deep blue button down that I battled from the beginning and took great pleasure in folding neatly and placing in a closet, in the office above the dining room, to gather dust. 

“Everyone does black.  We need to do something different,” said the boss man.

“I don’t care, black is classy.  I look like a boy in this thing.  It doesn’t work for me.  My boobs are too big, and if I get a shirt big enough to accommodate them, then the rest of me disappears,” said me.

“It’s fine, it’s a good color for you, it matches your eyes.”

“Shut up.”

And so I wore the shirt, and fussed over where the buttons buckled.

One of my co-workers, a cook, came in with his girlfriend and her family one night.  It was a busy night and I was actually relieved to have a table that took up most of my section and that I knew them, at least partially. 

They ordered wine and I happily retrieved the bottles, placing one on the table and lifting the other to present and open it.  I looked down to cut the foil away, the foil knife poised in my left hand, the fingers of my right hand wrapped around the neck and shoulders of the bottle.  There in plain view, was my white bra; the lace that binds the two cups together out there for all the world to see.  I let out a small gasp, moved the bottle in front of my cleavage and muttered, “I’ll be right back.”

When I looked up, my co-worker, dirty dog that he was (and probably still is), had a canary-eating smirk on his face.  All I could think about was how offensive I must have appeared to his girlfriend’s family.

“Here, let’s go out for a nice meal, complete with a side of TA TAs.”

I knew that I would never hear the end of it in the kitchen, even though I fully intended to disclose it to the boys myself.  I knew it would make them laugh and in their kitchen culture sort of way it would gain me even more credibility.  I know, sexist, but true.  And perhaps this is an illustration of the duality of restaurant life.

I swiftly retreated to the linen closet; bottle poised in front of the offending garment, and re-buttoned that blasted shirt.  Then I stepped out, gave my boss the hairy eyeball and asked him if he might have a safety pin handy.  I wasn’t going back to the table until the shirt was securely fastened across the entirety of my torso and I had half a mind to ask the boss man to pour the wine himself. 

I managed to return to the table in a timely fashion, abandoning my embarrassment somewhere in the linen closet.  My guests were courteous and made no reference to what had just occurred.  They had a good meal, and my night only improved from that point.

Of course, upon stepping into the kitchen to deliver their order, I also delivered a short and salty rendition of what happened, much to the glee of the kitchen staff.  I was regaled with such comments as:

“Love the uniform.”

“Way to go the extra mile, to please our customers and keep them coming back.”

“Someone’s getting big tits, I mean tips, tonight.”

Oh they were funny, those boys, even if it was at the expense of my girls. 

I honestly don’t recall how shortly the demise of that particular uniform followed, but I like to think that my point was proven and we moved on rather quickly.  And that’s what it’s about, moving on.  I could have let that moment of major embarrassment ruin my evening and every subsequent night in that shirt thereafter, but I would have only succeeded in spoiling the fun, for my customers and my co-workers. 

In the end, my table saw my ability to gracefully resolve a mutually (well, for almost everyone) embarrassing situation and still provide quality service, and my co-workers were given some added fuel and spunk for their evening.  But best of all, my point about the uniform was validated, at my very own expense.