To Tip or Not to Tip? (Suzanne Forster)

If this were a confessional booth I would be uttering those ageless words of atonement: Forgive me for I have sinned. I’ve had a major case of the guilts lately, and I wish I could say it was because I did something fun and self-indulgent, like eat more than one piece of lemon raspberry cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory—or maybe something scandalous like driving my little sports car on Pacific Coast Highway, wearing a flowing scarf around my neck. Oh, yeah, I’m a crazy woman when it comes to stuff like that. I shock the neighbors.

Alas, my sin doesn’t fall in the shocking category, except to me. I stiffed a perfectly nice waitress recently, and she probably didn’t deserve it. I say probably because guilt can mess with your thought processes. It was no mistake that I did it, though. I left that tip line blank on purpose.

First of all, going out for breakfast at eleven a.m. on a Sunday morning to an adorable little gourmet restaurant well-known for serving delicious brunches probably wasn’t one of my best ideas. Everybody and all their uncles were there too, but I decided to stay when they offered to seat me at the counter. Not having to wait was the only bright moment of the experience. The counter was not comfy, to say the least. The bar stools were so high I got dizzy and so hard they could have been made of cement, no padding at all, and there are a few places left where I still need some padding.

Also, I was invisible. I must have been because my server, a woman who worked the counter area, never once looked at me. I thought at first it was because my part of the counter had a long, weird aluminum thing that must have served some purpose on the other side, which was where the waiters hung out. No clue what this thing was, but I could sort of watch myself eating, and that was about all I could see. I definitely had the worst seat in the house, but that was okay because I was by myself and starving. I wasn't expecting a great seat.

Trouble was, this aluminum thing almost completely hid me from the view of the waiters, including my server, so I figured she must not have seen me. She'd waited on everyone else at the counter, including people who came in well after me, but she hadn't said a word to me since I sat down, and I'd been there going on twenty minutes. I was reading and not paying close attention, but eventually I noticed that the man next to me had finished his food and gone and someone else was there, and the girls to my left had been served water, coffee and mimosas, and I had not yet been acknowledged to exist. I figured I'd better put my book down and find out what was going on.

The waitress refilled the girls' champagne glasses and I said smiled brightly and said, "Ma'am?" to her. I was ignored. I thought she didn't hear me. I figured the big aluminum thing must be muffling my voice. I said it again. She looked right at me and put me in my place with a not very friendly, "I heard you. I'll be with you in a minute."

I honestly thought I hadn’t heard her correctly, but I waited while she served the man to the right of me. I swear she went over, got him a glass of water and a cup of coffee and took his order, and she still hadn’t asked if I wanted something to drink. So, when she glanced my way, I smiled again. Or tried. Hunger can make you grouchy.

“I heard you,” she snapped. I hadn’t said anything. But at least this time she got me a glass of water and said she’d be right back. I went back to my book until she returned to take my order.

I always get the spinach omelet with feta cheese, kalamata olives, and itsy bitsy yellow and red tomatoes. They serve it with oven-baked rosemary potatoes and their homemade catsup, which is good, but the potatoes, which resemble hash browns, not so much. They're dry and I'm not that crazy about spuds heavily seasoned with rosemary. But the omelet and the other trimmings are worth the price, which is fairly steep. It also comes with a delicious, thick-sliced wheat toast with raspberry jam. When I’m feeling adventurous I order some of their very strong coffee. Good. Jet fuel.

Sadly the food was mostly cold when I got it. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt on that one. In my mind, I faulted the cooks, but really, it was the server again. The food is hot when the cooks plate it. She wasn’t responsible for the hard chairs, of course, but that was about it. The toast was also cold, and not toasted. She forgot the butter and the sweetener for the coffee, which I did not mention. Can you imagine her reaction? “Ma’am?” “I HEARD YOU!!!!!”

I would have been dodging flying cutlery, I’m sure.

What she did well, besides putting me in my place, was chatting with the girls next to me about someone’s upcoming wedding. She never once asked if I wanted a refill on the coffee, for which they charge $3 a cup. I noticed she didn’t refill the man on my right, either, so I wasn’t the only neglected soul. But he got his food well before I did, and it looked hot.

Was it me or was it that aluminum shield in front of me that singled me out for such treatment?

Long story short, I didn't tip the woman. I walked out without giving her a cent. That probably seems like no big deal, but I've never done it before. I'm sure I've had worse service too, probably much worse, but I've never not given a server a cent. I felt so damn guilty I still can't adequately describe it, two days later. I have friends who are waitresses! I know you’ve heard that one before, but in this case, it’s true. A girlfriend serves tea at an exotic gift and tea shop—and it’s harder than you’d think. I have a step-daughter who worked for years as a cocktail waitress at a Lake Tahoe casino. The stories we’ve heard. It’s a tough way to make a living, so I always try to be generous, even when the service isn’t good.

I thought for sure Sunday’s server would come screaming after me, even though I was gone before she ever saw the check. But I have to say that any pleasure in not tipping her was completely overwhelmed by my guilty conscience ... until now, that is. They say journaling about your grievances is emotionally cathartic. I can now verify that it’s definitely a guilt-reducer because the more I recount the experience, the happier I am that I didn't tip her. She was grossly unprofessional (okay, let's just say it, a rude b*tch) and didn't deserve a tip. Yeah.

I'm really glad I wrote about this. The guilt is gone! I’m wondering, though, if I’d ever have the courage to do it again. Not tipping is traumatic. How do you guys handle it when the service is bad? Have you ever not tipped? Would you tip less or perhaps say something to the server? I’d love to know how others handle it. And if you've done some waitressing, maybe you could tell me what's in that long, weird aluminum thing? No seriously, what's it like from your side of the counter?

Suz