Living tipless

When I was in high school, one of my many jobs was to waitress at Coco’s. Coco’s was the California chain somewhat-better-than Denny’s restaurant that served as the training ground for many otherwise non-skilled high school girls. One of my most salient memories was my Denny’s “outfit”, which consisted of a puffy-sleeved white blouse with cheap elastic; and a sad brown calico wraparound skirt with a kangaroo pocket in front. This was function over form at its highest level. The pocket was an excellent catch-all for the order pad, two pens [I would not be caught without a pen as was often the case with the less ambitious servers – they weren’t trying to get into Stanford after all], a bottle of ketchup…and…most importantly – MY TIPS.

At the end of each shift – I’d come home reeking of either bacon or fried chicken – the nature of the grease depended on what time of day I had been scheduled – yank off the blouse and dump my tips from my pocket onto my bed. In my case, I often had more dollars than coins – a good sign anyway you looked at it. Less weight and more sanitary. [Back in the day, we didn’t have Purel]

I’m not sure how long I worked at Coco’s before I started really focusing on the tip. The average customer probably spent fifteen bucks so my tips could reasonably range from $1.50 to the occasional $20 on the table with a “keep the change” twinkle. If I remembered the milk order [most people default to coffee or coke with the most complexity being a “no ice” order], that was good for a few extra percent points up the 15 to 20% threshold. If I remembered extra napkins and brought them mustard [in addition to ketchup] or Tabasco sauce for their eggs on their first request, that always moved the tip needle.

Very soon, the tip was not about the money. It was about me. The tips became my first leadership competency test. My original “metric” as we are so fond of latching onto in our business conversations. A good tip meant I was worth something. They noticed me. I didn’t care one bit about promotion then. Or my resume. This was a very “real time” feedback mechanism and no matter how nice or friendly the hamburger eater or waffle devourer was…without the tip, it didn’t really matter.

I hadn’t really thought about the whole tipping thing until we moved to New Zealand. Kiwis don’t tip. Not at a restaurant. Not when you get your hair cut. Or nails done. Not when you take a taxi. Not even when your husband sideswipes the curb – denting the rim and fraying the tire – and you are concerned about making it back to Gisborne – a 3.5 hour drive through a very desolate gorge around hairpin turns with rambunctious truckers careening thisclose to you – even then, when the guy at the gas station stops everything and changes your tire for you – you don’t tip.

Mind blowing!

Forget the financial implications – things cost what they cost. Not another 10- to 25% depending on your mood and their delivery standards. It also means that things are just more straight forward. If I like the food, I can say how great the food is and not be concerned that I’ve just committed myself to another ten bucks in tip. If I don’t like the food, I can say so and not feel “cheap” in not leaving a tip. When someone completes a “personal service”, it is just over. No internal negotiation about how much..what it means…what someone like me SHOULD tip…concerns about them LIKING me if I tip well or thinking ILL of me if I don’t. My G-d, this is fantastic.
I never knew I fretted so much about this. Not to mention the conversation the men have after a Saturday night dinner. Especially if one husband is the type that definitely gets-back-at-the-waitress and one is an oh-just-give-her-25%. Or if one husband offers 15% and the other – in a subtle frown [that both his wife and I catch] raises the bar to let’s say 18%. Oh, the angst of tip giving.
Here, you just pay the bill. Finito. Done.

This means I must be even more vigilant about offering my gratuities in person. Not on a credit card slip or tucked under the plastic “check please” tray. My 20% is now handed over with words. Eye contact. A calling over of the manager to compliment Fiona or Susan or Ivan.

Kiwis don’t tip. However, they are richer for it…and so am I.