The waiter arrived with the little black card machine and held it out to me like a priest presenting the communion chalice.
“Just choose an option,” he said.
On the screen were the usual modern commandments: 5%, 10%, 20% … or Other Amount.
I chose 0.
Not because I’m tight.
Well … actually I am a bit tight. But that’s beside the point.
The real reason is that the service had been … perfectly adequate. The food arrived. The plate was removed. Nobody insulted my mother-in-law. It was all fine. Nothing terrible happened, but equally nothing occurred that made me want to reward anyone with extra money.
And this, I think, is the great modern tipping crisis.
Tipping used to be a spontaneous act. A little flourish of generosity. A small thank-you for service that went above and beyond. Now it has become a sort of financial pop quiz at the end of every meal.
You sit there blinking at the screen while the waiter watches you like a hawk waiting for a mouse to declare its moral character.
The options are never helpful either.
Five percent feels like an insult.
Ten percent feels like you’ve been shamed into it.
Twenty percent feels like you’ve accidentally paid someone’s school fees.
And then there is the tiny grey button at the bottom that says “No Tip”, which might as well read “I Am A Terrible Person.”
In Australia, historically, tipping has been mercifully rare because waiters are actually paid proper wages. The bill arrives, you pay it, and everyone goes home happy. If the service was charming or heroic you might leave a few extra dollars.
But now we’re importing the American system by stealth.
In the United States tipping isn’t optional. It’s the wage structure. If you leave less than 20 percent someone may well chase you down the street with a steak knife.
The British sit awkwardly somewhere in between, doing that national dance of embarrassment where they whisper to each other, “Did you leave something?”
Asia, on the other hand, treats tipping like a mild social error. Try tipping in Japan and someone may sprint after you to return the money as though you dropped your wallet.
And then, of course, there are cruise ships.
Ah yes, the floating utopia where tipping becomes unavoidable.
On a cruise you don’t even get the pleasure of deciding. The tip is simply added to your bill every day, quietly and efficiently, like a sort of maritime tax on gratitude. By the end of the voyage you’ve tipped the bartender, the cabin steward, the person who folded your towel into a swan and possibly the captain.
You could probably tip the lifeboats if you looked hard enough.
And yet I’m not against tipping.
Far from it.
When someone is warm, attentive, funny, helpful – when they elevate a meal from routine to memorable – I tip happily. Generously even.
But that’s the point.
A tip should be a thank you, not a subscription.
Which is why, when that little machine appeared and demanded I choose my moral worth in percentages, I calmly pressed 0.
Not because I’m tight.
Although, as previously mentioned, I very much am.