Answer: Several Triple X-rated websites. Question: What comes up when waitress is typed in on an Internet search?
It’s a Saturday afternoon and I’m standing on line in a department store coffee shop. A couple stands next to me, pondering the sandwich menu. The line moves slowly and soon they’ve made a decision about what they’re going to eat. They glance over at me. A flash of recognition is quickly replaced by puzzlement in their faces. I know who they are, but they are completely clueless as to my identity.
“Hello, how are you?” I ask them, smiling. “Great,” the man says, “how are you doing?” “Terrific,” I respond. “It’s funny running into you here,” he says. He’s fishing,
hoping I’ll say something or give some sign of who I am. “I like this place,” I tell him. “They’ve got great coffee here.” “Yes,” he answers. I smile again and look toward the front of
the line. The man’s wife leans in close to her husband and whispers desperately, “Where do we know her from?”
I can see him struggling with the dilemma. He has a whole set of feelings set off by seeing me, and I watch them pass across his face one by one. He knows I’m not one of his friends or acquaintances, because if that were the case, he’d surely know my name. But he also senses that he has a peculiarly intimate relationship with me. I know things about him, he thinks. What is it that I know? What is the context in which I belong? For the life of him, he just can’t grasp it.
I could help him out. He’s correct in assuming I know things about him. I know that he and his wife raise horses. I know where they live. I know his name. I know that his wife will always want to know which specials are good and ask for a detailed description of each one. I know that no matter what the specials are, she will always order the roasted chicken. She will always have her vegetables on the side. I know that he will begin every meal by ordering a bottle of mineral water, one liter, no gas. I know that I am not allowed to bring the mineral water until he asks for it, even though I know he will order it. I know that he likes to finish his meal with a decaffeinated cappuccino and a bowl of strawberries with crème fraîche on the side, but again, I must wait for him to ask for it and pretend that this is the first time he has ordered it this way. I know that he will ask for the check after he finishes the cappuccino and that he will let it sit on the table for ten minutes. After that period of time I will pass by and he will take out his credit card, lay it on the check, and ask me to add one more decaf cappuccino to his bill and bring it along with the receipt for him to sign. I know that his wife will stand up before he does and begin strolling toward the door. He will wait for me to come and pick up the check. And then he will thank me.
Yes, I could make it easier for him. “I am your waitress,” I could say. But I don’t. I have been waiting on these two for years. They always leave a good tip, and while they are strangely
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quiet most of the time, they are relatively low maintenance. Recently, they have even started smiling at me once in a while. I must assume, therefore, that I am doing a good job at playing my part. And my part is determined not so much by how well I perform my job but by how close I am to the image of waitress that these two have in their minds. I’ve played it so well, in fact, that they are completely unable to attach an identity to me outside of the restaurant. The relationship is working well. Why ruin it by telling him who I am?
And who am I, exactly? How close is my real identity to that assigned me by this customer or any other who sits down at my table? It is my feeling that these questions factor into every customer-waitress encounter. I am referring now specifically to the waitress and not the waiter for two reasons. The first is simply that as a woman I am limited to a female point of view. The second comes from my belief that there exists in our culture a specific image of the waitress in particular.
This image has morphed somewhat over time yet has retained certain key elements. The waitress is decidedly blue collar but usually street-smart and frequently sexy. She is definitely an independent working girl (or woman); still, she is often quietly glamorous and mysterious. But the waitress also brings food and provides nourishment. She “takes care” of her customers, placing herself in a motherly role. Put sexy and motherly together and you’ve got a powerful package indeed. And although it is only my opinion, I believe that the waitress is as much a post-feminist icon now as she was a prefeminist representation years ago.
Have I gone too far? Assuming for the moment that art imitates life, a quick look at popular culture supports my theory that there is not only a common view of the waitress but an enduring fascination with her. The Internet is full of references to her either in little odes that various authors have penned to her, in sites dedicated to her role, or in the above-mentioned adult websites.
The waitress has also been featured in a variety of commercials and advertisements, in which she has sold paper towels and long-distance phone service, lobbied against cigarette smoking in restaurants, and displayed cosmetics. Songs have been written about her and she has given her title to at least one band, The Waitresses, of the 1980s, who knew “what boys like.”
Perhaps the clearest image of the waitress as a popular icon, however, is in Hollywood’s version of her through a variety of films and television shows that feature her in a leading role.
The character of the waitress is a popular one, appearing in films from the 1930s on. For the purposes of both clarity and brevity, however, I’ve chosen a selection from the time period between 1970 and the present, a span I felt would most succinctly reflect the evolution of this particular woman’s role.
I had seen all the films and TV shows I’ll present here when they first appeared. But in order to get a better sense of how the image of the waitress had changed over time, I watched all of them again within a short space of time. I’d expected to find the films of the nineties reflecting the feminism of the seventies. What I found instead was that while the trappings had changed (and the waitress uniforms had become more comfortable), the view of the woman who was a waitress remained essentially the same.
Before I begin my abbreviated study of the waitress on film, let me offer a disclaimer or two. I make no claim to critical greatness. The plot summaries and subsequent analysis I’ll offer here in no way reflect any one film’s greater themes or artistic merit. For that I must defer to those who’ve had considerably more experience. I am, however, a waitress. As such, I can allow myself the liberty of judging how closely these films portray me. Ultimately, the heart of my argument is a personal one. That said, let’s begin at the beginning.
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Fiv e Easy Pieces (1970)
Jack Nicholson plays Robert Dupeau, a pianist who has run away from his talent and his cultured family to work as an oil rigger in a dusty California town. He lives with his girlfriend Rayette (Karen Black), a waitress and aspiring country singer in burnt orange polyester. Rayette is crude, emotionally dependent, and dumber than a sack of hammers. Dupeau is absolutely faithless and often abusive, but Rayette, sweetly and helplessly in love with him, keeps coming back for more. For his part, Dupeau tells Rayette that if only she would never speak, everything would be fine. When he learns his father is dying, Dupeau drives up to the Pacific Northwest to visit his family, reluctantly taking the now-pregnant Rayette with him.
Even those who have never seen the film know the famous diner scene that follows. Dupeau’s memorable interchange with his waitress is one of the most indelible in film history. Trying to order a plain omelette and a side order of toast, Dupeau encounters total resistance from the waitress (Lorna Thayer), who refuses to offer any substitutions on menu items. Ultimately, Dupeau tells the waitress (quite brilliant in heavy mascara, blue eye shadow, and more burnt orange clothing) to hold the chicken in rather a tender place and is summarily tossed out of the diner. He never does get his toast. Ultimately, Dupeau runs away once more, deserting Rayette and all that she represents, without a word.
A
lice Doesn’t Liv e Here Anymore (1974)
Ellen Burstyn won an Academy Award for her portrayal of Alice, a housewife whose abusive husband dies, leaving her and her precocious son to fend for themselves. Alice gets some work as a lounge singer in Phoenix, where she hooks up with a man (Harvey Keitel) who seems all right until he turns into an abusive lunatic. Alice and her son hightail it out of town to Tucson, where she is forced to take work as a waitress (a prospect that completely disgusts her at first) in Mel’s Diner. After struggling awhile with her new role, Alice warms to life in the diner and to her coworkers, smart-talking Flo (Diane Ladd) and oddball Vera (Valerie Curtin). Still, she needs a man, and this time Kris Kristofferson plays the customer in shining armor who comes to her rescue. Things start seeming like they’re going to work out for Alice as soon as this relationship is on track. By the end of the film, in fact, Alice even defends her job as a waitress to her son, claiming that she has supported both of them on her tips.
Alice (1976–1985)
This long-running TV sitcom took its premise and characters from Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. Like the film, the series depicted the blue-collar lives of the characters in and around Mel’s Diner. Like the Alice in the film, too, the Alice of the series (Linda Lavin) waits tables while she pursues her dream of making it as a singer. Single parenting, working women, and their relationships were all popular topics over the course of the series’ run.
It’s a Living (1985–1989)
A small group of waitresses (Crystal Bernard and Ann Jillian among them) working in a swank restaurant on top of a high-rise were the featured characters of this TV sitcom. Adding to the mix was their neurotic manager, who had a long-running comedic romance with the chef, and a lascivious piano player whose main job was to hit on and be rebuffed by all the waitresses.
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Cheers (1982–1993)
Given the wild popularity and phenomenal run of Cheers, a description of the series is probably redundant. I’ve included it here because of the immense appeal of its characters and its depiction of two very different waitresses: Diane Chambers (Shelley Long), the intellectual whose on-again, off-again romance with barman Sam Malone was followed with avid interest by a huge viewing population, and Carla Tortelli (Rhea Perlman), her much-married, tough-talking foil.
Frankie and Johnny (1991)
Michelle Pfeiffer plays Frankie, a beaten-down waitress in a New York City restaurant. Al Pacino plays Johnny, the ex-con short-order cook who falls in love with her and tries to win her in this paean to loneliness. Early on, a fellow waitress dies, sick and alone. None of the other waitresses (a familiar mixture of smart talkers and eccentrics) want to end up this way. Frankie, uneducated and with a long history of abusive relationships, can’t see much of a way out. She is a tough survivor but destined to live an unfulfilled life. Again, salvation comes in the form of a man. When Johnny breaks through Frankie’s tough exterior and reaches her tender core, there is finally a ray of hope.
Gas Food Lodging (1992)
This film, written and directed by a woman (Allison Anders), features more lonely waitresses looking for love. Brooke Adams plays Nora, a woman who is raising her two teenage daughters alone in a trailer in New Mexico. Nora works as a truck-stop waitress with a somewhat miserable existence. Deserted long ago by the father of her children, Nora has recently given up a long-term relationship with a married man. Her eldest daughter, Trudi (Ione Skye), has problems of her own, having drifted into promiscuity after a brutal rape. Following in her mother’s footsteps, Trudi drops out of school and ends up waiting on tables as well, until an unplanned pregnancy forces her to leave town. The younger daughter, Shade (Fairuza Balk), is not yet as jaded as her mother and sister and remains a romantic believer in the power of true love.
Untamed Heart (1993)
Marisa Tomei plays Caroline, a golden-hearted but unlucky-inlove waitress in Minneapolis. When weird busboy Adam (Christian Slater) saves Caroline from being raped by a couple of ruffians, the two develop a sweet but doomed relationship. Adam, alas, is sick, and his ill health truncates their loving relationship. Like every other waitress on film, Caroline is lonely and searching for love. What makes this film sadder than others, though, is that she actually finds some happiness in love for a while, only to lose it.
It Could Happen to Yo u (1994)
Based on the true tale of a New York policeman who split his lottery winnings with his favorite Yonkers waitress, who helped pick the numbers, the real story is enough of a fairy tale, but this film takes it one step further. Bridget Fonda plays Yvonne, the waitress, who’s been done wrong by her no-good husband (Stanley Tucci). He’s charged up her credit cards, forcing her into bankruptcy. Despite a heap of personal trouble, though, she tends to her customers like a ministering angel. Nicolas Cage plays Charlie, the cop with a heart of gold who can’t come up with a tip for her after paying for two cups of coffee. He promises Yvonne a half interest in his lottery ticket if the num
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bers come up, which, of course, they do. Rosie Perez plays Muriel, Charlie’s harpy wife, who is as bad as they are good. She wants all the money, and ultimately, she gets it. Again, it’s love that saves. Even when Charlie and Yvonne lose their fortune, their newfound love for each other buys them both admission into “happily ever after.” (A key point proving that this is obviously fantasy: Yvonne buys the coffee shop when she gets the money, deciding she wants to be a waitress forever. The film gave rise to a question commonly asked of waitresses: “If you won the lottery, would you buy this place?” Buy the place? I’d venture to say that most wouldn’t even eat there again.)
Hea vy (1995)
Aptly titled study of the characters who frequent a dive bar in upstate New York. Overweight introvert Victor (Pruitt Taylor Vince) works as a cook with his mother, Dolly (Shelley Winters), who owns the place, and Delores (Deborah Harry), the slutty, chewed-up waitress. Dolly hires lovely Callie (Liv Tyler) as the new waitress and Victor falls for her on the spot. Truly sweet and good-natured, Callie shows Victor attention and affection, prompting him to fantasize about becoming her savior.
As Good as It Gets (1997)
Jack Nicholson is Melvin Udall, an obsessive-compulsive writer with several chips on his shoulder. Helen Hunt (who won an Oscar for this role) is Carol the waitress, devoted single mother, all-around nice person, and the only one who will put up with Melvin’s nasty wisecracks at the table. Melvin can’t eat unless Carol serves him, but he soon finds himself needing her for more than breakfast. When he offers his help by arranging medical care for her sick son, the fiercely independent Carol reacts first with wariness and then with gratitude. Ultimately, with the help of Melvin’s gay neighbor Simon (Greg Kinnear), the two embark on an unusual journey into romance.
Over almost three decades, the portrayals of waitresses on film are more striking in their similarities than in their differences. What is most surprising to me, however, is that the characters in the early films seem to have not only a stronger sense of self but a more feminist outlook than those in the later films. Again I feel compelled to qualify: I claim no expertise in the area of feminism. Let’s not forget that I always thought those Playboy bunny outfits were cute and that I longed to live in Barbara Eden’s genie bottle. I’ve never really worried much about what my role was as a woman in modern society. Whether due to circumstance or the nature of my own personality, however, I’ve learned that a certain independence of spirit is as necessary as a strong survival instinct to carve an identity as an individual (and as a woman) and not somebody’s girlfriend, mother, or wife. It was this kind of awareness that I expected to see reflected in film characters of the nineties. Instead, these women/waitresses seemed less liberated emotionally and spiritually than their predecessors.
In my mind, there are only a couple of explanations for this shift in view. The first, that the common conception of women in general has now gone back to some Dark Ages prefeminist notion, I dismiss out o
f hand. The second explanation seems much more reasonable: that our collective vision of the waitress has, in fact, descended into some murky and decidedly unliberated depths. To support this view, it is necessary to present a few specifics of these characterizations.
I’ll begin with a quick study of an ever-popular topic: sexuality. With very few exceptions, all the waitresses here are intensely sexual beings, bordering, in some cases, on the wanton.
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Rayette, in Five Easy Pieces, uses her sexuality to hold Dupeau, assuming quite rightly that this is perhaps her only asset. The title character of Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore has no qualms about freely expressing her sexuality, either. Over the course of the film, she’s seen in bed with three different men. Waitresses continue to smoulder on screen with Frankie and Johnny, which gives Michelle Pfeiffer’s Frankie the opportunity to redefine passion in a series of sexy scenes with Al Pacino’s Johnny. Nora of Gas Food Lodging is imbued with the same easy sexuality. She gives up a long relationship with a married man, resigning herself to loneliness in order to set a good example for her daughters, but she is soon under the covers with a new bedmate, offering him a detailed explanation of what pleasures her. The character of Delores in Heavy takes this type of sexual ease to its furthest extreme. Used up, bitter, and denounced as a slut, Delores has had an affair with her boss’s husband, a few of her customers, and even attempts to seduce the hapless Victor in one of the film’s most uncomfortable scenes.
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