It may be “the season of giving” but give me a break. I’ve got to tip my hat to the fella who thought this one up. I’m sure you’ve all been affronted many times by now with what I’m about to address. You make a purchase at a restaurant, a coffee shop, a drive-through, on the phone, or in some cases even online and a tip is urged by the company. By sheer coincidence I just heard on the news, while writing this very sentence, that now Amazon is suggesting to tip your delivery driver. A voice or a computer screen is thrust at you asking if you want to give a 15%, 20%, or 37.18% tip. The first time I was assaulted by this “request” I inadvertently blurted out, “For what?!” I was embarrassed, froze in my tracks, and was speechless at my seemingly rude behavior. I’m not embarrassed anymore, and I’ve come to believe that the request itself is cheeky.
Now before you accuse me of being inconsiderate, cheap, or worse, I’d like to add that for a couple of years I waited on tables to earn a few bucks while in college. I was appreciative of my customers’ generosity and have always tipped my servers since — even if the service was poor. I learned from experience that the delays were usually in the kitchen and not the server’s fault. Of course there’s a complication here because with servers, barbers, taxi drivers, and the like it was expected that a tip should be proffered since the salaries were below minimum wage. (That’s fodder for another essay.) Even so, it was never overtly requested of the patron.
No, my distress arises from the ridiculous to the absurd situations where this practice is being thrust upon us causing stress and making us unsuspecting consumers wonder what to do. It makes me “tipsy,” and I don’t even drink. (Sorry I couldn’t resist. I’m afraid there will be more of this below.)
Here are a few examples of “tipflation” which I have encountered. Some are on the tip of my tongue, and hopefully they will materialize shortly. (I warned you.)
The other day I was walking along the rail trail and got the urge for a lettuce and tomato sandwich on rye. I phoned in my order, gave the clerk my credit card number, and said I’d pick it up in 15 minutes. She then asked if I wanted to leave a tip. I was stunned and stammered, “No.” My order was not in tip top shape when I arrived. It was on stale white bread.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Shortly afterward I ordered a birthday present from a catalog for my granddaughter over the phone. Just when I thought I had gotten away with it, the representative asked me if I wanted to leave a tip. I tipped over in my chair and asked if a smile would do? She wasn’t amused. Neither was I. I haven’t received the present yet.
I was so rattled, when I went out to gas up my car, I tipped over my coffee cup which I had put on the roof while waiting for the tip request from the self-serve pump.
Admittedly I have been slightly facetious at times (only slightly) but the tipping point related below is absolutely factual and an accurate description of the event. It transpired down in Albuquerque, New Mexico where I went to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family. One evening, several days after the traditional feast, my son made reservations for all of us to eat at an upscale restaurant on the other side of town. I felt very out of place in that atmosphere and probably committed every social faux pas imaginable. When the bill was brought to the table by the cadre of wait staff that attended to us, I volunteered to sell some stock and spring for the tab. As I was about to add my tip on the tip line at the bottom of the long slip of paper which was delivered in a fancy leather wallet, my son exclaimed, “Wait dad.” He pointed out to me that midway down the bill, in the proverbial fine print which I hadn’t noticed, was the statement reading, “20% tip included.” I was flabbergasted. I had never left an eating establishment without filling in that bottom tip line — even if the service didn’t warrant a tip. Here was my solution. Many of you might characterize this as an unacceptable response, but as mentioned above, I had reached my tipping point. I wrote: “Here is an hot tip for tomorrow’s Daily Double at Hialeah — Sneaky Pete in the first and Double Dipper in the second.”
The following morning I felt guilty and reduced my own tip to myself at breakfast, because I hadn’t put enough cream in my coffee.
Jonathan Kahane lives in Westhampton.