I happen to be the last of the big-time spenders, especially when it comes to my family. The reason I know I’ll never get rich is because people think I’m always out to create a big impression with my money.
The way I look at it, whatever I have, it’s not coming with me to the eternal resting place. So I may as well squander it off or spread the wealth a bit.
I can’t think of a better place to splurge than at a restaurant where people wine and dine me to my heart’s content.
A hostess leads me to my seat. A waitress takes my order. A chef prepares my meal the way I suggest. A busboy removes the tableware. All of them deserve a gratuity. But I’m not that big a philanthropist.
So I confine my merits to the waitstaff, wherever I may dine. I’m a happy tipster, not the kind that inebriates, but one who rewards an employee for a job well done.
Having worked in restaurants myself, I can appreciate what goes into good service. It’s my opinion that restaurant employees—from the dishwasher on up—have a job that’s often under-appreciated.
My introduction to tipping came as a 9-year-old when my parents threw a house party. My job was clearly outlined.
“Greet the guests at the door and take their coats and hats.”
Not a big responsibility, mind you, but one designed to create a good impression. Figured since I was working, perhaps I should be compensated for it. When my mother wasn’t looking, I went to my piggy bank, took out some quarters and put them on a plate by the door.
As guests filed in and I took their coats, they noticed the change dish and began emptying their pockets. I was getting richer by the moment. Then disaster struck. My mother figured I was up to my own tricks after seeing a plateful of loose change and did the unthinkable.
She emptied the cash back into my bank. The coat check job took on a backlash at evening’s end. Since I tucked the apparel away into a closet, it became my responsibility to find the right match. Not an easy task, I can assure you.
Now, the traditional rate of tipping is 15 percent. That’s protocol at restaurants. It’s easier for me to figure 20 percent, not being a math whiz. A buddy of mine carries a calculator with him wherever he goes, just to compute the correct amount for tips. He hits it on the nose and not a penny more.
I give him my story and he chuckles. Poor men give big tips pretending to be rich. And wealthy men give small tips pretending to be poor. It’s true. The affluent tend to be the worst tippers. Maybe that’s why they’re rich and will take their money to the grave.
The tip you leave for lunch would have purchased dinner a generation ago. Consequently, if my service is slow and I’m wallowing in misery, the best way to expedite matters is to give the waitress some sage advice.
Tell her, “Take your time, m’am. I’m not much of a tipper anyway.”
Hey big spender. That’s me. I tip the news carrier. I tip my postal deliverer. But not my doctor. He makes enough as it is. If my deliveryman does an adequate job, I’ll slip him a couple bucks.
The Mediterranean cruise I took a year ago nearly sent me to the “poor farm.” What I didn’t calculate was the amount I would deduct for tipping—everyone from the porter and the chambermaid to the wine steward.
I realize some of them work for peanuts and need the money. When you take a trip of this magnitude, you don’t skimp. And very often, all they earn is the tips they may send across to support a family in some devastated place they call home.
Whenever I’m part of a dinner party, it’s not uncommon to share the bill and split the tip. But if I’m the invitee, then I’ll pick up the tab. More often than not, they’ll suggest paying the tip.
In some ways, I suppose, tips are wages we pay other people’s hired help. The best line I ever heard from a counter clerk had me in stitches all day. I noticed a small sign on a cup that read: “No tips.”
The poor woman put up with a lot of grief from my order. Eight cups of coffee all prepared a different way. I interceded.
“Excuse me. I see where tips are forbidden here.”
The woman broke a smile and said, “So were the apples in the Garden of Eden.”
Tom Vartabedian
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They say Frank Sinatra was a big tipper. This is probably an urban legend, but it’s cute: He’s leaving a restaurant and asks the valet the amount of the biggest tip he’s ever received. The valet says, $100. So Sinatra hands him $150 and asks, “So who was it who left you the $100 tip, son?” Answer: “Oh, it was you, sir.”
Glad to learn Tom is a decent tipper. I can’t stand lousy tippers.