Since moving to Scottsdale, Arizona, we have been going out to dinner a lot. There are so many restaurants here that it would take two lifetimes to try them all. Italian, Mexican, Chicago Pizza, New York Pizza, American, BBQ, Mediterranean, and my personal favorite, In-N-Out Burger. Even though the culinary choices here are diverse and plentiful, there is one thing they all have in common; really strange looking servers.

Historically, most people working in restaurants have been young. I, myself, was only 18 when I got my first job at a metro-Detroit area Red Lobster. It was fast-paced, hard work, long hours on my feet but also a lot of fun. There’s a certain camaraderie among the servers and even a certain hierarchy in the various restaurant stations. Servers hang out with servers, line workers in the kitchen usually keep to themselves, busboys are practically invisible and the dishwashers are seldom seen as they reside in the nether regions of the kitchen where no self-respecting server would ever wander. However, we all had one common goal and that was to get that deep fried flounder out to the tables as quickly as possible. We also had a strict dress code.

Here is a photo of a typical 1970s Red Lobster. Please ignore the giant lobster that seems to be devouring the other table. This is something I never encountered in my restaurant. Now, this server is wearing the classic sailor suit. Her hair is pulled back, and put up into a neat bun. If you had short hair, it couldn’t touch your collar. You must wear white shoes. No nail polish. No jewelry. And nude pantyhose. The male servers wore black pants. Black shoes. White shirt. Black bowtie and a red, three button jacket. Weekly meetings were mandatory and the menu had to be memorized. Trays were only used for beverages. All dinner platters had to be balanced with three on one arm and one in your hand. Having been trained with these strict restaurant rules, you can understand why I view today’s servers as a hodgepodge of freaks. I’ve yet to encounter one who could meet the standards of a 1975 Red Lobster.

Let’s start with the greeting. “Hi guys.” “How are you guys?” “What can I get you guys?” and my personal favorite, “Yo guys, ‘sup?.” I do realize that in today’s world we are not allowed to specify a gender, but apparently, “guys” is still acceptable. This initial greeting is when I get to take in the general appearance of the person serving us. I will frequently see many, many earrings or the “ear gauge,” which is when the earlobe is stretched in all directions in order to accommodate a set of hubcaps. There will be piercings in the nose, the eyebrows and sometimes in the lips and tongue. The mouth piercings are particularly bad because I can’t understand the specials. “Did you say, lentil soup or lethal throop?” Let’s not forget that I couldn’t wear nail polish.

And then there are the tattoos. Tattoos on the hands, the fingers, the arms, the neck. It’s like being waited on by a comic book. Tim was once in a restaurant where a young girl was wearing a crop top (and I had to wear a sailor suit!) and she had words going all up and down her ribcage. Intrigued, Tim asked her what the tattoo was and she said, “My father died and his favorite song was Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd. I had the lyrics tattooed in his memory.” He must be so proud. How about buying a CD and playing the song on his birthday instead of having those drug induced lyrics permanently etched onto your ribcage! Thankfully my father’s favorite song was Stompin’ at the Savoy by Benny Goodman and there were no lyrics. Although I guess I could have had a clarinet tattooed on my arm. Just for dad. 

Speaking of my dad, he had to navigate what was appropriate dress for me when, as a teen, I went all out glam rock. He swore about the glitter all over the carpet, the silver sparkle nail polish that ended up staining the coffee table, not to mention my silver platform boots that were always left at the front door. He frowned at the glitter halter tops, the short shorts emblazoned with sequins and a myriad of feather boas that seem to float around the house. Once he realized that it was a losing battle to argue with me about changing clothes, he came up with one rule. That rule was, anything that I wore, painted on, sprayed on or dangled from my ears had to be completely removed and scrubbed off at night. The first time my dad saw me in my conservative Red Lobster sailor suit and flat shoes he was speechless. Although, he had no idea that underneath my uniform I was wearing a silver satin bra with sequined straps. Some habits are hard to break. 

I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on this new trend of restaurant servers. But, clearly this girl pictured here has broken every Red Lobster rule ever enforced. She’s more decorated that the Broiled Fisherman’s Platter on Christmas Eve. However, she does deserve props for at least having half of her hair off her collar.

When I go out to dinner now, the bar is set so low on the servers. As long as they get my order right, bring my dinner in a timely manner and don’t drop their nose ring in my wine, I’m happy. Yet, I still miss the clean fingernails and scrubbed look of a 1970s Red Lobster server.