Gratuities confuse people. Somewhat predictably, the young seem to be plagued with the most widespread ignorance on tipping. Perhaps it’s just a lack of education. While just about every parent, or whatever, feels obligated to drop knowledge on topics like the birds and the bees and the importance of earning a few bucks delivering pizza, few parents deem it important to educate their offspring on social etiquette like tipping. As a result, young’ns learn this shit the hard way – that is: by being repeatedly embarrassed by colleagues or even by waiters and bartenders until they eventually grow the fuck up. They can be perplexed by sub-stellar service or why they’re ignored for long periods of time. They can even be cut off by bartenders and waiters. It’s a vicious cycle. Those folks sometimes feel antagonized and as a result – you guessed it – don’t tip well or don’t tip at all.
I’ve written many instances of War and Peace about topic previously. However, the objective of my rants clearly has still not sunk into the craniums of the masses of bar and restaurant goers. For the hard of hearing and the educationally disadvantaged, in other words – all of you cheap asses – here it is again from another mouth-piece:
From the Amber Road Cafe in Canton, MA
Do you see what that is? It’s a credit card receipt. I took a picture of it just a few days ago at a small restaurant (way outside Boston), that I take everyone to, called the Amber Road Cafe. Anyway, I took a picture of it because I wanted you to see what I wrote for a tip: $5.00. No, it’s not a lot of money. No, I’m not bragging about leaving a $5.00 tip on a $14.00 meal. So why post it? Because you’re an adult now and you need to learn how to tip.
One of yesterday evening’s interesting encounters. Middle aged, mom-jean wearing, lady’s pint-o-grog is nearly empty. I’m clearing empty glasses whilst greeting and taking orders from a three-top directly next to her. I’m simultaneously rattling off drink suggestions and making notes of what some of them would like to try. Mid-sentence, I feel the hot iron poker of her Skeletor-like finger right to my kidney. This hard-Jersey-living, Caravan-driving soccer Mom has nearly caused me to go down for the count and almost caught a fist to the face (my New York instinctive reaction to such attacks). She follows with “can I get my check?”
I turned around and say “please don’t touch me. You can’t do that. If you want my attention, just ask.” She’s clearly insulted at my retort and gives me the silent treatment. Ballsy rat-faced wench scurries out the door and this is what I find…
Go on with yo bad self Mama! Keep poking alive…