It’s a flurry of excitement, here at Casa de Pearl, as I ready myself for another foray into black-pantsed-and-white-shirted encounters of the catering kind. My shirt has been starched into crisp yet bland submission; my practical shoes have been located; my favorite underwear, a trusted pair with a strict no-ride policy, have been set aside.
And my black pants are ready.
Funny thing about those black pants, though: they’re actually Mary’s. We’ve decided, in that quirky, kinda endearing but kinda weird way that women have, that I look better in her pants and she looks better in mine.
There’s a joke in there somewhere, but we’ll let it ride for a bit.
I don’t think men trade pants. Then again, I’m not sure.
I text T. “Have you ever traded pants with a friend?”
“Why,” he writes. “What have you heard?”
So that’s probably the answer right there.
Serving jobs are a fertile land of stress, hustle, and humor. It is a world of shouted jokes, often in Spanish; of carefully balanced plates and mysteriously crusted and rejected forks. There will be glasses to fill with ice and water, place settings to be set, napkins to be napped. I don’t want to get too detailed here – it’s all very technical – but suffice it to say that at the end of the night, I will be several inches shorter and several twenties richer.
Hey. Who has more fun than me?
Of Borders and lines
8 hours ago