Tips of the Trade

Along with balancing gooey cheese burgers and bottles of beer, a waitress often has to deal with formidable high school rivals and persistent pick-up calls

I use no word at work more than “absolutely”.  As a waitress, I am nearly required to have, along with an apron, a check presenter and fistful of black pens, a go-to phrase in response to any restaurant guest’s request. “Absolutely” offers me, in its chipped succinctness, the opportunity to let my guests know that I’ve heard their question, that I care, and that, as soon as I spit out my quadrisyllabic stock phrase, their wish will be granted. “More water? Absolutely! Steak tartare? Absolutely! A million dollars? Absolutely!”

Every American service professional has his/her own variant—co-workers of mine use “certainly!” and “No problem!” Word choice matters little—what does matter, however, is that the customer hears your eagerness to please.  American tip culture dictates a direct corelation between quality of service and size of the tip. So, though the socially acceptable tip amount nowadays is 20 per cent of the bill, it is expected that customers will leave more or less than that for outstanding or poor service, respectively.  Tip-raising tricks range from an impressive knowledge of the beer list to bats of the eyelash and, often, beyond. My boyfriend, for instance—a tall, dimpled co-worker of mine—is well-practised at exploiting his charms. When dealing with a group of young women, he automatically lowers his tenor to a baritone and unbuttons the top button of his shirt, revealing a well-placed tuft of chest hair. My boyish companion morphs into a disarmingly debonair womaniser who manages most nights to win a healthy amount of both tips and phone numbers.

When does flirtation turn inappropriate? When is a customer’s demand just too much? And what happens if, after all that, our attentive charm goes unrewarded? The ideal is to leave for the night with both cash in hand and pride intact. Below, however, I share two tales from the floor that show just how hard that is.

Girls my age have historically been the most emotionally exhausting customers for me: they come dressed up with their friends and enjoying their weekend, as I, with messy bun and ketchup-stained shirt, struggle to elegantly open their bottles of wine. Watching them is a look at life as it could be, if it were free of financial concern, inebriated and lived in a short skirt. I obstinately insist to myself that I would never spend my evenings imbibing revoltingly pink cocktails, but the Cinderella in me occasionally wishes otherwise.

A reservation arrived one evening that I instantly pegged as one of those tables: the first to arrive ordered—between taps on her BlackBerry—still water, sparkling water, white wine and red wine for the table. When I returned with drinks, she was in the midst of greeting the rest of her party. I turned to look at them, and, mid-pour, choked back a tear and ran away. 

What scraped off my otherwise constant sheath of Calmitude was the presence of a girl I had gone to high school with.  She had been the perfect cinematic picture of an American high-schooler: pretty but not beautiful, articulate but not brilliant, and enormously wealthy. We had been ‘friends’ in the sense that we shared friends, but supported between us only the thinnest veneer of amicability.  She was exactly the person I did not want to see, let alone serve.

I took a few deep breaths, got some reassuring pats on the back from co-workers, and again pushed myself into the fray.  I acted surprised when I saw her—“Tara?! No way!”—and thus initiated the ridiculous ritual of feigned friendliness that American girls are so accustomed to. She went  through the paces, but made no effort to introduce me to her friends. I was once again their server, and proceeded to bring her her crab cakes with the utmost professionalism.

When bill time came around, I opted to not put an obligatory 18 per cent tip on their check. We were, after all, ‘friends’ and, given that I had visited the small country of an estate her family calls home, I presumed that she would tip me more than generously. She said they were in a rush, handed me a stack of credit cards, and asked me to split their check a million different ways. I proceeded with haste, assuming that Harvard grads know how to add properly. Much to my chagrin, they do not. On top of getting no tip, I had to cover $10 of their bill.    

As humiliating and financially unrewarding as the above instance was, afterwards I could at least reassure myself of my moral superiority over my teenage ‘frenemy’. There was an evening, however, when I could leave work with no such haughtiness. 

I was working at a casual Irish pub in my college town, bringing gooey cheeseburgers and pitchers of cold beer to patrons. One warm July night, I got a group of five middle-aged, very well-dressed men at my table. They were immediately flirtatious, but in an easy and gentle-enough manner. I soon learned their names, nationalities and drink orders. Their firm had flown them in from all over for a week-long management course, and, after a day spent staring at whiteboards and PowerPoint presentations, they were looking to let go a bit.

One round of drinks quickly turned into five, and every time I stopped by their table, they became a bit friendlier.  At one point, the leader of the group—a Sean Connery-type from Dubai—asked me what I made in a night.  I told him $100 or so (Rs 4,400), well enough for a girl of my means. He shook his head and told me that I was dealing with a group of multimillionaires, each of whom could easily drop $100 apiece for my tip that evening.  I smiled and told him that, honestly, it was just nice to have them to chat with over the course of the evening. He spoke openly of this every time I came to the table, coaxing his friends into giving me their share. Ceremoniously, they would hand me cash, often asking for a kiss on the cheek in return.  My modesty implored me not to cross that line, but greed got the better of me. I exchanged light grazes on the cheek for $500.

That evening’s events left me with a cold knot of discomfort in my chest.  How far was too far? When did friendly flirting turn into a supplicatory something-or-another? Customers might determine my income, but it was up to me to define the blurred outlines of my pride.

Having experienced both ends of the spectrum, I can say that self-worth feels a lot better than a pocketfull of cash.  Along with the $500, the Sean Connery lookalike told me that, if ever in Dubai, I could stay in his mansion on this man-made peninsula that he owns. Appetising as that might sound, I don’t think I’ll be calling.

About The Author

Chandi Deitmer