I was in a hoity-toity play called The Heiress at a theater in Pasadena (that's me, top row, second from the right, nattily clad in orange cravat.)
As the only straight male in the cast, during intermissions on Sundays I avoided backstage hen sessions and sprinted over to the pub across the street to catch some football. In full costume, of course.
One day, a large Raider-nation type customer saw me in my getup and asked me for a menu. After letting him know I didn't work there, he looked me up and down and shook his head like I was a maniac.
Pardon me, ace, but I'm an actor. What could I possibly know about waiting tables?