I wanted to attend Zoobilee, the food-filled fund-raiser, but I'm currently between waist sizes and my formal duds don't fit.
So I stayed home, which, I insist, is what the management of a new Tacoma restaurant and lounge with fine-dining ambitions should have told its hostess to do when she showed up for work wearing the dress that revealed more than I, as a diner, could stomach seeing.
Hosts and hostesses are the faces of restaurants and lounges. They greet customers. They seat customers. They set the tone. We might come for the chef, but we're met by someone else -- the host or hostess.
The tone set by this hostesses' dress -- disclosure: I'm not a fashion guy, so I'll describe the dress as a mini print toga with a V-neck that plunged to her sternum -- turned my date and I into a couple of butch and catty schoolgirls. It was like "Mean Girls," but with a decent pinot grigio.
Actually, it was like this:
"Oh. My. God. I didn't know panty lines could stretch that far."
"Is that my veal burger under there? Or is her dress way too tight?"
Back when I washed dishes at my parents' restaurant, I tried dressing new-wave for work one night. I put on one red Converse sneaker and one orange Converse sneaker. My parents wouldn't even let me in the car. They ordered me to stay home instead.
The hostess at the new Tacoma restaurant and lounge sat near the front door, on which a sign announced that proper attire is required. I'm sure that's code for something like "no shoes, no shirt, no hoodies, no cammo, no beaters no service." It should also be a mandate to the staff.