Stiffed
I just gave a waiter a zero tip for the first time in at least a year.
I'm a good tipper. I usually give somewhere in the 18-20% range — post-tax, even. Waiting tables is a thankless job, and I've spent enough time around my parents' cafe to know just how few people tip at all, regardless of whether the service is any good or not, so I even feel sort of a social obligation to make amends for other people's crappiness. (My dad approached one of the non-tipping regulars once, saying that since he was in there for lunch literally every weekday, that he needed to show consideration to the waitstaff who take care of him. "I would, but I'm on a budget." Needless to say, my dad has more self-restraint than I would have in the situation.)
The service has to be really bad for me not to tip. Embarrassingly bad. Everybody has bad days, often accompanied by bad attitudes, and even in those times when I think someone is giving me lackluster service just because he/she assumes I won't tip well, it's almost more gratifying to prove them wrong by giving them a generous tip anyway (and assuming that some sort of tipping karma will make things right next time around).
But sometimes. . . . Oh, man.
Okay, see, let's roleplay for a minute.
"Hi, welcome to Mr. Pickwick's Fish and Chips. Please have a seat," I say to you.
Except, see, I *don't* actually say that to you, because you're standing around, alone, at the front of the restaurant, for a full three or four minutes (it doesn't sound like much, but try timing it) while I don't even make eye contact with you, let alone have consideration enough to tell you I'll be with you in a moment. You finally assume (encouraged by the lack of any signage one way or another) that perhaps you should seat yourself, and start toward an open booth in the corner.
"No, no, no you don't! You go over here!" (I really do say that. Because I'm an asshole. And I blame you for the fact that I hadn't gotten around to seating you yet.)
I hand you a menu. I immediately run off without having taken a drink order or brought you a water or really saying anything at all, for that matter.
You know what you want, but after it's apparent that I'm nowhere to be seen, you go ahead and read the whole menu just in case. Then you try to find all the #1 – #7 "Top Choice" items on the menu, in order. You read about the steak and kidney pies just for fun. You're dying of thirst. The other waiter has walked by three times. You're already tempted to mutiny.
Finally I show back up.
"I'd like the two piece cod and chips," you say. Without a word I start to walk away.
"AND a pint of the pale ale?" you add.
I look at you. "We're out of pale ale. I'll bring you a Sleeman's instead." I walk away. It's a good thing you like Sleeman's Honey Lager, because that's what you're getting, apparently.
The food and beer arrive fairly shortly, but most likely only because the cook shouted, "Two piece cod for the gentleman at table ten!" at me, so there's not much excuse for it not to.
You take your time eating the fish. It's not bad. You finish up, and seeing no sign of me, pull a book out of your bag, and begin reading where you left off at page 29.
At page 48 (imagine, as well, that despite your appreciable intelligence you're a rather slow reader — rarely more than a page a minute) you realize you haven't seen me since I brought your food. As I walk by with someone else's food you catch my attention. I make an exasperated noise at you. I stop by your table on the way back toward the kitchen. "Are you done?"
"Yes, thanks," you answer.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask, startling you with this sudden series of actual questions.
"My bill, please," you say. You begin reading again. You get very engrossed in your book. You're on page 63. You check the table just in case the bill was left there and you didn't notice. No bill. You look around for me. I'm not in the kitchen. I'm not walking around. There I am! Sitting at a table with another diner, drinking a Coke out of a can. I look up at you briefly, and no note of recognition crosses my face. Exasperated, you grab your backpack and walk up to the cash register, secretly hoping that the other waiter will cash you out, so that you don't even have to face me again. That gets my attention.
"Oh Christ," I mutter under my breath. I continue to mumble something to myself.
You give me a $20. I hand you your change, still muttering.
So tell me, how much of that change would you leave for me?
I'm a good tipper. I usually give somewhere in the 18-20% range — post-tax, even. Waiting tables is a thankless job, and I've spent enough time around my parents' cafe to know just how few people tip at all, regardless of whether the service is any good or not, so I even feel sort of a social obligation to make amends for other people's crappiness. (My dad approached one of the non-tipping regulars once, saying that since he was in there for lunch literally every weekday, that he needed to show consideration to the waitstaff who take care of him. "I would, but I'm on a budget." Needless to say, my dad has more self-restraint than I would have in the situation.)
The service has to be really bad for me not to tip. Embarrassingly bad. Everybody has bad days, often accompanied by bad attitudes, and even in those times when I think someone is giving me lackluster service just because he/she assumes I won't tip well, it's almost more gratifying to prove them wrong by giving them a generous tip anyway (and assuming that some sort of tipping karma will make things right next time around).
But sometimes. . . . Oh, man.
Okay, see, let's roleplay for a minute.
"Hi, welcome to Mr. Pickwick's Fish and Chips. Please have a seat," I say to you.
Except, see, I *don't* actually say that to you, because you're standing around, alone, at the front of the restaurant, for a full three or four minutes (it doesn't sound like much, but try timing it) while I don't even make eye contact with you, let alone have consideration enough to tell you I'll be with you in a moment. You finally assume (encouraged by the lack of any signage one way or another) that perhaps you should seat yourself, and start toward an open booth in the corner.
"No, no, no you don't! You go over here!" (I really do say that. Because I'm an asshole. And I blame you for the fact that I hadn't gotten around to seating you yet.)
I hand you a menu. I immediately run off without having taken a drink order or brought you a water or really saying anything at all, for that matter.
You know what you want, but after it's apparent that I'm nowhere to be seen, you go ahead and read the whole menu just in case. Then you try to find all the #1 – #7 "Top Choice" items on the menu, in order. You read about the steak and kidney pies just for fun. You're dying of thirst. The other waiter has walked by three times. You're already tempted to mutiny.
Finally I show back up.
"I'd like the two piece cod and chips," you say. Without a word I start to walk away.
"AND a pint of the pale ale?" you add.
I look at you. "We're out of pale ale. I'll bring you a Sleeman's instead." I walk away. It's a good thing you like Sleeman's Honey Lager, because that's what you're getting, apparently.
The food and beer arrive fairly shortly, but most likely only because the cook shouted, "Two piece cod for the gentleman at table ten!" at me, so there's not much excuse for it not to.
You take your time eating the fish. It's not bad. You finish up, and seeing no sign of me, pull a book out of your bag, and begin reading where you left off at page 29.
At page 48 (imagine, as well, that despite your appreciable intelligence you're a rather slow reader — rarely more than a page a minute) you realize you haven't seen me since I brought your food. As I walk by with someone else's food you catch my attention. I make an exasperated noise at you. I stop by your table on the way back toward the kitchen. "Are you done?"
"Yes, thanks," you answer.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask, startling you with this sudden series of actual questions.
"My bill, please," you say. You begin reading again. You get very engrossed in your book. You're on page 63. You check the table just in case the bill was left there and you didn't notice. No bill. You look around for me. I'm not in the kitchen. I'm not walking around. There I am! Sitting at a table with another diner, drinking a Coke out of a can. I look up at you briefly, and no note of recognition crosses my face. Exasperated, you grab your backpack and walk up to the cash register, secretly hoping that the other waiter will cash you out, so that you don't even have to face me again. That gets my attention.
"Oh Christ," I mutter under my breath. I continue to mumble something to myself.
You give me a $20. I hand you your change, still muttering.
So tell me, how much of that change would you leave for me?