Author: Peter Camarero

For those of us who depend on tipping for income when someone chooses to leave us no tip or a substandard one, we take it very seriously. We’ll stew about it for days, sometimes months or even years later, but we rarely confront the perpetrator. Taking a vow of silence is part of an unwritten code in the hospitality industry—among the Ten Commandments of waiting tables if there were such a thing: Waiters Shall Not Question Bad Tips.

Right or wrong, you’re always taught to accept what you’re given with the humility of a clergyman even if—as is often the case when gratuities are involved—the amount left to you isn’t commensurate with the level of service you think you delivered. It usually isn’t, so you learn not to take it personally. The law of averages is on your side. Bad tips are usually offset by the generosity of others.

But if you value your restaurant job, you have to control your emotions about the tips you receive. Vengeance is impossible when you wear an apron. As much as you think you’ll revel in calling someone out for their crimes against humanity, it’s a war you can never win. People are always gonna be dicks. Sometimes the dicks sit in your section.

But are there ever situations that arise where it’s acceptable for a server to question a tip? A recent experience pushed me to the brink and—against industry mores and, perhaps, my better judgment—I finally did it. I confronted a guest for not tipping. No matter what hospitality purists might say—my sincerest apologies to Danny Meyer—I think I did the right thing.

This particular table, a group of four businessmen from different parts of the world, dined late and had a three course meal. I’d talked them through the menu, made recommendations and the sommelier served them a nice bottle of red. When they were ready to pay, I saw four different credit cards next to the check presenter and I offered to split the check evenly for them. But before I could retrieve their cards, one of the men stopped me.

“We need you to bring over a pretty girl to help us with our game of credit card roulette. Why don’t you bring over the blond hostess who greeted us on our way in?” We’re a mostly male staff, so I didn’t need them to point her out.

“I think you’re asking the wrong guy,” I said half-jokingly, “I bring drinks and food, not pretty girls.” I really hoped that hearing me say this aloud would help them realize the absurdity of their request. It didn’t.

Unbeknownst to me, they had already sent someone else to summon the hostess. Understandably, she felt uncomfortable being put on display and politely refused. We don’t work in a gentleman’s club, after all, it’s a restaurant.

“I’m happy to split the check for you anyway you like,” I said with a friendly tone. But instead of letting it go, they continued to explain why their game would only be fun if it involves the attention of an attractive woman.

“Look—I understand what you’re asking but maybe I’m not making myself clear. I don’t broker bringing pretty women to people’s tables. That’s not what I do. If you need me to divide the bill for you on multiple credit cards, that’s not a problem.”

Eventually, they let it go and asked me to split the bill evenly four ways. One of the cards declined. It wasn’t easy to conceal the joy I felt returning it, but I did. The men got up quickly from the table. People who tip poorly don’t stick around to see the reaction. I retrieved the bill and their four signed credit card slips. Each quarter was charged for over $200, all four men left me nothing. Zero tip on all four cards.

In my head, I quickly ran through a list of potential grievances. I had given them informed guidance about the menu. The sommelier suggested a delicious bottle of wine that fit within their price parameters. Their water glasses were kept full and the table had been maintained well. I checked back with every course to make sure that they were enjoying everything. There were no known issues. I could only conclude that, at least in their minds, that my indifference to agenting female attention to add intrigue to their credit card game justified leaving no gratuity. It was too insulting not to call bullshit. So, at the risk of losing my job, I did.

I followed them out onto the street in my uniform.

“Sir, I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable—were you disappointed with your service tonight?” I said to the ringleader.

“Well, yes,” he said, looking uncomfortably at his table-mates, “I guess we were.”

“I have to ask you—did you choose not to leave a gratuity because I didn’t bring a girl to your table for your credit card game?”

“Yes, actually we did,” he said proudly.

“I take a lot of pride in my work and, to be honest, I have to say on a personal level it’s very insulting that you think that part of my job is to bring women to your table to flirt with you. I don’t view that as part of my job or hers—I don’t think my employers do either—and neither should you.”

He puffed out his chest a little but I wasn’t looking for a fight. I wished them all a rote goodnight and turned back toward the restaurant.

Ok, maybe I wasn’t this articulate in real life but you get the idea. I said what I needed to say and I walked away seething. I’m still mad as I write this because I know how many people in our industry have no voice to stand up for themselves when diners behave this way. I wonder how often normal people with normal non-service jobs have to hold their tongues dealing with entitled customers.

Leaving a bad tip is an inherently cowardly act—like breaking up with someone via text message. This man seemed stung by my calling him out and maybe also a little ashamed and embarrassed that I undressed him. As much as I’d like to believe that my employers would stand by me if he contacted the restaurant to report the incident, there’s no guarantee they would take my side. The truth is for most restaurant owners and managers, my behavior in this situation would be considered beyond reproach.

So… should waiters have a right to speak out against bad tippers? To me, it’s a question of dignity. Many people in the industry would have you believe that walking away from such a confrontation is the more dignified response. You are only the waiter after all. It isn’t your business, both literally and figuratively. A staff who recklessly questions tips can injure the reputation of the restaurant. I respect this perspective but I don’t agree with it in isolated cases. There are plenty of scenarios, like this one, where guests take advantage of the fact that the people serving them don’t have a voice or a mechanism to fight back. The most sinister guests get pleasure in lording over us and if we don’t play the game they know they can hit us where it hurts—on the tip line. Restaurant mangers will tell their staff, “let us handle it,” but they usually do nothing to avoid offending a guest.

At the end of the day, though, it isn’t a game. It’s a job. One where people shouldn’t be allowed to receive service for two hours in a restaurant and then trump up flimsy reasons not to tip their servers. When you choose not to tip someone who serves you, you’re making a bold statement. No one should ever be allowed to do so without being prepared to justify the decision.

Anyone who thinks being a waiter is an easy job has obviously never waited tables. One thing that makes restaurant work so uniquely challenging is dealing with infinite permutations of human stupidity on a nightly basis and having to adjust your behavior accordingly. There are no algorithms to crack the code of people’s ridiculousness, you just have to roll with whatever comes your way. It’s part of the job to maintain your composure and stay neutral under extreme duress. Speaking up for yourself or calling someone out for being an ass will come at the expense of your tip and may even cost you your job.

My mettle was tested on a recent night by my last table, who arrived just before closing. It’s frequently busy late where I work so it’s not uncommon, even on slower weekday nights, for a new table to be seated after 11pm. Seeing them sit down broke my spirit—the demoralizing feeling you get when you think you’ve climbed to the top of the mountain and you realize the peak is actually miles away—but I was determined to show them a good time. I took a deep breath, aligned my chakras, grabbed four menus and forced a smile over my face.

There were two couples in their mid-to-late forties seated at my new table. Without reciprocating my greeting, they informed me they were expecting a couple of martinis they had ordered from the bar while they were waiting. I assured them I would inquire as to the whereabouts of their cocktails and quickly recited the specials. Of course they ignored most everything I said, convinced that more exciting information could be gleaned from inside the backlit nothingness of their cellphone screens. I made a few recommendations after delivering their drinks and informed them that the kitchen would be closing shortly. The men seemed a little drunk but the situation was nowhere near amber alert.

Before the first course arrived they called me over to change one of their main courses. You want the shrimp instead of the lamb? No problem. I told the kitchen to cancel lamb, ordered the shrimp and asked the manager for a void. The appetizers arrived. When I checked back to make sure everything was alright, the first course was fine but they’d decided on second thought they really didn’t want the shrimp after all. I could feel my chakras pulling apart. I trudged back to the kitchen muttering obscenities under my breath. Thankfully, the shrimp hadn’t been cooked yet so it wasn’t a problem. The moment the squishy, opalescent crustaceans hit the grill, it’s a different story. The chef looked at me, as he often does, like I was out of my mind. I begged him, as I always do, not to shoot the messenger.

I went back to the manger to ask for another void. “Are these people serious? Didn’t they just change this to shrimp?” she asked, entering her passcode into the POS terminal. She already knew the answer to both questions, so I remained silent. My mantra: I can only speak for myself.

When I returned to the table to clear the appetizer plates, they insisted on canceling the rest of their main courses because they’re already full. “I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “the rest of your food is on the way,” I didn’t need to check with the chef, my manager or anyone. Canceling food in a restaurant is not something you do whimsically based on how full you get. It doesn’t work that way. “I can’t cancel anything else. I’ve tried to do everything I can to this point. The food is coming.” I had transformed into an angry parent who’d reached his wit’s end. They were petulant little children needing discipline.

About five minutes later one of the women got up from the table and cornered me in the wait station. I thought she was going to ask me for directions to the restroom. She seemed a bit shaken.

“I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but the guys we’re with are really drunk and we need to get out of here right now,” she said with the impermanent desperation of an entitled white person.

“Well… I’m sorry to hear that.” I tried my best to sound sympathetic but stayed on message. “Unfortunately, your main courses are about to be served so if you want I can wrap them up for you?”

“That’s ok. We’ll pay for it. I’m really sorry. They’re just sooo drunk, we really need to go right now.”

So, I returned to the kitchen to ask the chef to wrap everything to go. He’s annoyed but less annoyed than if I’d canceled the order outright and the food went to waste. “These people are out of control,” he said, giving me the stink eye. I don’t say anything. I’m already showing symptoms of PTSD. “No problem, dude. We’ll wrap it.” His voice sounded relieved all of a sudden. These moments have a way of reminding chefs how fortunate they are not to have to deal directly with the people who eat their food.

I returned to the table with the check in my hand and present it with a restrained smile.

“We are wrapping the rest of the food for you and it should be arriving shortly.” Everyone looks back like I’m speaking a foreign language. As I began to remove the clean share plates and flatware from the table, I realized that the woman who pulled me aside has not said anything to her company about her exit plan. So to everyone else, it looks like I went rogue and decided to evict them.

I shoot her a piercing glare. “She asked me to wrap your food and told me you needed to go.” Everyone at the table turns toward her.

“No, I didn’t,” she stared at me intently like someone who wants you to know they’re upset you blew their cover. If she was going to throw me under the bus like that, I was determined to take the bus down with me. My feet feel heavy in my worn-out black waiter shoes and I can’t move, still with rage.

“We didn’t just have a conversation, just now, where you asked me to wrap the food and told me you needed to leave right away?”

“No, I never said that.” She looked around nervously like a fidgety witness under cross-examination. I was the defendant’s lawyer, arguing a losing case.

“There are two ways this can go,” one of the drunk men interjected, “1) You can cancel the food or 2) You can serve it to us at the table.”

“I think there are more than two ways this can go, my friend,“ I said, beginning to lose my cool.

Rather than outline the different outcomes I envisioned, I gently replaced their table settings and did what any other self-respecting server would do in this situation—I ran crying to my manager. We removed the food from the to-go containers, re-plated it with the chef’s help and brought it to the table. They barely finished anything and then, without irony, asked us to wrap what was left. The two men at the table split the bill—both tips were well below average, one tipped under ten percent. I struggled to find an argument for why I deserved to be tipped poorly. There wasn’t one. There usually isn’t. Adding insult to injury, they stayed for another round of drinks at the bar.

This situation highlights the dilemma that most people who work in restaurants face almost every night. You have no leverage when conflict arises. There is only one side to every story. The most apocalyptic reviews on Yelp always feature stories written by omniscient first person narrators. They might as well all be titled: “It happened because I say it happened.” At the end of the day, waiters keep their mouths shut because they know they’ll always end up on the losing side of the argument.

For those of us who make a living serving people, effacing yourself for the edification of others takes its toll over time because, like battered spouses, our sacrifices are so rarely appreciated. There is nothing to protect you from the abuses of guests who revel in exploiting the server-master relationship. Part of surviving life in the restaurant business is learning to accept the muzzle you wear everyday. No matter how badly people treat you, you can never stoop to their level, not if you value your job. When they go low, we go high. Because the customer may not always be right, but the customer will always have the last word.