Tips for Waiters

Last week, my wife and I visited a local restaurant for our Friday night dinner-out to celebrate the culmination of another work week and kick off the start of two days of chores and bill-paying.  Unfortunately, our neighborhood is not blessed with a diverse selection of restaurant options; with the exception of fast-food and take out, the majority is chains like Friday’s, Chilis, or Applebees.  As such, we don’t delude ourselves with expectations of five-star service or mind-blowing feats of culinary genius; we merely go to enjoy a couple of frosty beers, maybe catch some of the game on the overhead TV, and take simple pleasure in the atmosphere exuded by those around us bent on doing the same.  And – after a hard week’s work – we don’t feel like spending an hour at home cooking, followed by another hour doing dishes and cleaning up.

Moreover, anticipations of good service have been tempered by past experience.  We easily shrug off the service one would expect from preoccupied adolescent restaurant employees, take little notice of the tasteless fish or rubbery vegetables that resemble nothing like the pictures in the menu, and are pleasantly nonchalant about forking over $15 for an entrée and $3.50 for a beer if it means being able to relax and spend some much-deserved time together.  We grin away the annoyance of having been ignored by our server for the first 15 minutes while we sit at our table, or that the detritus from the previous customers still sits on our table attracting flies.  Instead, we shout conversation at each other as music blares down from speakers above our heads and cigarette smoke from the bar drifts steadily towards us.  We’re all smiles: it’s Friday!

While ordering, we find – with an experience-worn lack of surprise – that our waiter is either unwilling or too perplexed to accommodate our questions regarding meal ingredients (we are pesky vegetarians); he has not been programmed to perform a simple side-swap free of charge.  We smile understandably as we agree to a $2.50 surcharge for our exorbitant requests, which include such complicated demands as switching bacon beans for french fries, or a side of alfredo sauce for the regimented tomato and beef sauce.  We’re sorry – we know that we are picky and difficult customers…  We don’t want to further confuse our waiter and, more importantly, we don’t want any surprises in our food.  So we apologize sheepishly and accept the indifference shown us.

As expected, our meal arrives all wrong (we requested no mayonnaise and a wheat bun, not extra mayonnaise on white bread, and we did not want the bacon beans), but we simply chuckle at the blatant, repeated and unrepentant ineptitude of our waiter and order another beer to numb our simmering annoyance.   We remind our server that, yes, we did order two more beers (ten minutes ago), and, yes, we know you’re busy tonight (despite the obvious fact that we are one of three tables that you’re covering).   But, the waiter is likely a college student, after all – he’s probably just enjoying an occasional cigarette out back or flirting with the hostess.  Ah, to be young again.  And hey, it’s Friday night and we don’t have to go to work for two more days!  We remember what it was like to be a poor college student, and we let it go…

While choking down our semi-warm, tasteless, overcooked “food” with another watered-down $3.50 beer, our waiter drops off the bill and disappears.  We lay down our credit card but, twenty minutes later, there is still no sign of him.  Where could be possibly hide for this long?  This restaurant is not that big; it’s not a shopping mall, and our table hasn’t moved.  I had wanted to order one more beer, but by now I’ve decided against doing so; it’s already 8:30 and we’d like to get home before midnight.  Having finished our meal, we begin to run out of conversation and start fidgeting with our napkins, looking around the restaurant worriedly – our facial expressions likely resembling those of airline passengers who have just been informed that their flight (the last of the evening) has just been cancelled.  Meanwhile, the smoker at the bar has been joined by his buddies, whose collective puffing effuses a forest fire of smoke that rolls over us in nauseating waves.  Where the hell is our waiter?  I know he’s busy, but really…

Finally he appears out of nowhere, muttering something about “would we like dessert” and disappears with our credit card before we can reply.  He returns in 15 seconds – by far his fastest performance of the evening – and removes our plates with our forks still in hand, and whisks away unfinished glasses of beer before we can protest.  Luckily, I got to keep the half piece of toast hanging out of my mouth that he somehow overlooked.  So there we sit, stupefied, still chewing our food, watching longingly as our unfinished meals disappear into the kitchen, and wrestling over that final inevitable question:  How much do we tip? 

Everyone knows that gratuity is 15%… right?  Or is 20% the new 15%?  Twenty percent of our $45 dollar meal is $9.  I clench my teeth and white-knuckle the pen while glaring across the table at my wife for some indication, justification, or encouragement to draw a line through the tip section of the bill.  But I don’t; I want to be nice.  I calculate 15% to be $6.75 and, of course, I round up to an even $7.  Wouldn’t want my server to have to scrounge around in the cash register for loose change.  I can’t help feeling like I’ve been swindled; I’ve spent nearly $55 on food that tastes like cardboard, served by a pubescent jerk who expects me to apologize to him for disrupting his Friday night with his friends.  Not to mention that, assuming customers at his other two tables offered tips similar to ours, in the last hour he made $30 – the equivalent of $60K per year if he worked this job full time!

I have several buddies who worked as wait-staff in college and they have all reminded me on numerous occasions – all while I sit grinding my teeth in anger to their obvious amusement – that waiters get paid something like $3 an hour.  They rib me with their jokes about taking life too seriously, and call me insensitive, anal, penny-pinching, and so forth.  Okay, fine, I can appreciate their stoic ability to roll with the punches and help out struggling students, and perhaps I do need to let it go.  But, while I understand waiters aren’t rich, aren’t their low wages an arrangement between them and their employers?  Their contract has nothing to do with me.  A restaurant menu, on the other hand, is a contract between the restaurant and the customer:  I agree to purchase certain food items at a given price, and decent service is implicit in the sale – after all, isn’t that what their fun-filled TV commercials promise?  I am not paying only for my fish and vegetables; I am also paying not to have to cook it, not to have to serve it, and not to have to clean it up.  I am paying $50 to be served tasteless food with a smile; without this smile, why would I pay above and beyond the terms of the contract? 

The waiter’s contract with his employer is his wage.  If the employer informs a new hire that he will pay him exactly $3 an hour, but that the waiter can keep his tips, then that is the terms of the contract.  In exchange for providing excellent service, waiters can potentially earn hundreds of dollars in an evening.  And unlike an automotive repair shop, where customers pay for parts plus labor, the price on a restaurant menu reflects both.  I visit a restaurant for the atmosphere, for the service, for the convenience, and, yes, sometimes even for the food.  A tip is a premium for service above and beyond these terms.

My friends have reminded me again that the waiter is probably a student working his way through college and he needs money.  I reply callously, so what?  The “needs” justification is, in so many words, that my waiter needs my money, and that I am somehow obligated – out of pity or compassion – to give it to him.  What does it say about our society that the tip has become a social norm: an expectation of payment entirely aside from quality of service delivered.  You have the money and the waiter needs it, so fork it over or be labeled a greedy selfish jerk! 

To avoid name-calling and dirty looks, my wife and I pay the 15% and leave angry, promising ourselves that this is the last time!  Hey, I work for my money, too – I work hard for it and I don’t believe I’m obligated to give it away.  None of my customers tip me; if they are happy with my services, they return instead of going to my competitor. 

This Friday I will cook my $2 frozen fish on the back porch, and sip my $1 beer out of a coozie while I swat away mosquitoes.  Then I’ll clean up, do the dishes, and maybe even get done by 8 o’clock.  And I won’t even have to pay protection money to avoid a surprise in my veggie beans. 

© 2009 myrationalreality.com.  Permission to reprint in whole is granted, provided full credit is given.