I shudder to imagine how Aunt Marie (God rest her soul) would react to today’s explosion of expectations for tipping.
Even back in pre-inflationary times, Aunt Marie (who always worked hard for her money) was prone to greet hints for gratuities with a cranky, “I’ll give ‘em a dadgum tip, alright!” (With the understanding that she meant a teeth-jarring tip upside the head.) Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know that more and more venues and occupations are pushing for tips and that bare-minimum percentages are trending inexorably upwards.
A tip of 15 percent maintained harmony between diners and waitstaff for decades. Now the server infers, “After I leave this measly 15%, I’m going to drive to the cemetery in my diamond- encrusted Rolls Royce and spit on your father’s grave.”
For no discernible reason other than pandemic pressures, a range of 18-20 percent is now the starting point. One member of the etiquette god pantheon did try to explain it with “Well, the fluctuations of the euro … I mean, the emergence of systemic …a w, go ask your mother!”
We’re supposed to get with the program and accept that tipping has evolved. Fine, if it has evolved, let Bill Nye the Science Guy fork over an extra two bucks for my hoagie. It’s supposedly a violation of the social compact if we hold a grudge against a restaurateur who just wants to live his dream. ... Some businesses are tacking on an automatic tip even before a delivery is made. ... (Restaurants feel justified in assessing an automatic 18% tip for large parties because the diners might (!) be unreasonable, might (!) tie up the table too long and might (!) forget whose turn it was to tip. Next, they will add a surcharge for bribing Animal Control because monkeys might (!) fly out of the butts of the diners. Consumers are especially riled up over self-checkout (!) touchscreens that suggest a range of tips. (“Think of it as a convenience, not a guilt trip – although the touchscreen does sometimes complain that you never visit your cousin in Topeka.”)
