I live with tipping trauma.
After I received my first paycheck at my first full-time job — back in New York in 1984 — I treated my parents to dinner in Flushing, Queens, where we lived. That Cantonese banquet hall — buzzy, clattering parties scattered among lazy-susan tables — is long gone, replaced by a succession of other Asian eateries. I’ve even forgotten the restaurant’s name. But the aftermath of the dinner is indelible.
In my nervousness over spending my hard-earned money, I skimped on the tip. Just as we were out the door, a furious man ran after us, yelling in Cantonese (which I don’t speak) and waving the itemized bill. I was flustered but soon got the point (my mother understood Cantonese). So I pulled out some cash and made him less furious. I was abashed: I was celebrating my livelihood by diminishing someone else’s take-home pay.
A few years later and fully initiated into the guilt that comes from undertipping, I joined some friends on an excursion to New York City’s Russian immigrant enclave, Brighton Beach. Toward the end of the night at an enormous vodka den, I gathered the cash from my companions — I was the least sloshed — and took care of the bill with a big wad of cash, gratified that the management had worked in a service charge so I didn’t need to calculate a tip. But as I was leaving, the boss-lady of the joint came up with the young woman who’d been our server, blocking my exit. The manager glared at me and said, “How can you not leave anything for the girl? Look she’s crying.” And indeed, her eyes were moist. I said I’d paid the service charge. The boss said, “That’s different.” I pulled out more cash and handed it to the girl. In some languages, you might think the word for “tip” has the sound “bribe.”
I’m sure you have your own tipping nightmares. They can be comic (the little izakayas in Japan where waiters chase after you because they cannot accept anything extra, even the embarrassing pittance you’ve left them) or sneering (the Parisian server who pushes back your tip because, well, the amount is beneath him). But they all contribute to the worst part of dining out: calculating the appropriate amount of gratuity to express your gratitude. After a wonderful meal, the last thing I want for dessert is math.