In addition to my lifelong pursuit of living, that is, being an artist, a writer, whatever you want to call all that–I am also a man of the bar. For the past two decades, I have made my way somewhere inside the service industry, mostly in front of a wall of liquor. Truth is, I am quite good at bartending, mostly because I genuinely like people.
I have witnessed firsthand many changes in the industry—advances in tech, cash culture, and shifting attitudes toward alcohol have shaped the dining/drinking experience for customers and staff alike—and in the middle of it all, the very idea of gratuity is being questioned. Who in the service industry at large deserves a tip?
(I’ve got one, you say! Get another line of work!)
Inflation! Affordability! It’s the economy, stupid–and it is. Stupid economy… And it’s coming from both ends–as belts tighten for the consumer in an effort to keep every spare dollar, the tip jars, or screens make their way to unexpected places—much to the chagrin of the everyday consumer.
Well, I’ve about had it! On the way to work today, the bus driver asked for a tip. I was so insulted that I complained to the manager of the Tri-Met. He agreed it was truly unprofessional and said he would issue a stern warning and assured me it would never happen again. I was so impressed with him I tipped him twenty and walked the rest of the way to work…
Shit rolls down hill, and perhaps, we have reduced the service industry to beggars…
I understand–every dollar we tip is a dollar we just gave away. But this is America, honeychild! Money is the sweet nectar, o Óleo, that keeps this ship steering the right way. You see–you see–what we have here? A breakdown of a kind, the breakdown of communication, the silence of capitalism. It is the silence of money, and America, if not its inventor, is certainly its perfector.
The tip jar, the screen–it certainly is in your face–is it not, and if I understand it correctly, more so lately than usual? It is a nasty little thing, and nothing is more crass, more nasty than a confrontation over money. You’d rather ask your father-in-law for a kidney before a spare dollar, now admit it!
America’s relationship with money is rooted in a kind of mystique. It is everywhere, it is nowhere. It is in abundance if you know where to look; it is never anywhere that meets the eye. It sits underneath every open bar tab, every shared Uber, every dinner among friends, every gift under the tree that does not ameliorate the shortcomings of last year’s present.
At the restaurant, it is a sigh of relief when someone just offers to pay, and it is settled upon. I offer to pay, too, but probably to buy my way out of any awkward haggling later on. It is expensive to be cheap!
My attitude is this–I always tip. I just can’t help it. The encroachment of any kind of pettiness, I am allergic to. It is a cloak, an attitude I need to survive; I hate cheap people. I also detest money. It isn’t about the money! There is something about cheap people I find lacking that has nothing to do with money; it is a cheapness in spirit I find wanting to piss on…
Anyway, the restaurant industry is fictitious. The bar and hotel, too. The shit has rolled so far downhill–look at wages + cost of living; just do it, you can’t make the equation work without tips. Servers would turn in their aprons, bartenders would retire to philosophy, baristas would remain (the lot of them wouldn’t know what to do with themselves), and every restaurant with any character would turn into a Wing-Stop or gas station-adjacent Subway.
Without the generosity of strangers, without their participation in the farce, the restaurant industry, at large, fails. Co-ops, alternative business models, shared-profits systems exist, but their methods aren’t broadly, culturally time-tested. Alternate systems may flourish here and there in cities that can approach the cutting edge, but there are restaurants all over the country that will continue to rely on gratuity to cover the pay for their workers.
The point is there is no system, only culture, and there is something said about culture and politics–one of them is downstream from the other one, but when they fuse, everything is downstream from that. All the way down to the poor soul who pours your beer, or gets you the extra ranch, or creamer, and depends on your generosity for their living. It’s a Beggar’s Banquet, and I am Mick Jagger, and I can’t get no…
Customer Satisfaction.
Just yesterday a man emptied his change into the tip jar. 67 cents. He was pushing 80 years old. I said, “Please, Mr. Jagger, you’ve done enough! Another gentleman, sporting a touch of gray, ordered a cheeseburger without onions. Says he can’t stand onions. When a man does this, I see his inner child. A boy sits before me now, making an ick face at those slimy vegetable toppings–gross, mom!
The truth is, I get the sense that the rats are fleeing the ship. Money tightens, everyone at the bottom scrambles. We have normalized these positions and then have become complacent with them in the restaurant industry; complacency breeds dysfunction, deterioration.
The conversation between the worker, the tipped soul, and management has been a one-way street for at least two decades. The workers at the bottom are getting crushed, yet expectations keep rising. Years ago, you hardly had to worry about allergies. Now, they are everywhere, and the implications of a mistake feel life-threatening. For someone to order without a following list of modifications and special kitchen requests feels like a lucky break.
Too, a group of six came into the restaurant; after one order of fries for the six of them, a few coffees, an iced tea, the total bill for the table was $55.00. Separate checks, every one of them, all paying with a card, all requesting receipts.
It is the restaurant industry–dealing with people–that makes you wonder how the world functions, how do people survive with such little wherewithal.
But what I do know is the people in the industry are some of the best people I have known. If my experience is any indication of the industry at large, the service workers keep the world moving. They can’t always feel like it, but are mostly willing to perform, determined, and invested.
For myself–I tip all I can. As a bartender, there is some feeling of obligation, something that compels me. The service industry is full of moving parts, and when you know enough, it is harder to hold it against anyone. The delivery was late, the ice machine broke down, the cook called in, the server’s water broke this morning; it’s all too human of an enterprise. I’m not paying for the service; I am paying for the show.
A tip is a call to action for the spirit! It says pony up to grease the wheels a bit, buy your ticket for the show. The tip is always optional, and so is the performance. Without everybody playing their role, the house lights come on, and the fiction of all this restaurant business is seen in much greater relief.
Wrong Speak is a free-expression platform that allows varying viewpoints. All views expressed in this article are the author’s own.
@Laggy