“Bizznitch, what the frakk, yo” I thought to myself in my finest mental Battlestar Galactica hiphop freestyle.
Case Study Number One : No es bueno
It was the start of summer - warm weather means terrasse and restaurant season in Montreal. I had a few pesos burning a hole in my pocket and a hankerin’ for some Tex-Mex food. The Mexican place on Prince Arthur Street had changed hands, so we figured what the hell - how bad could a Mexican tourist trap in Montreal be?
| DISCLAIMER |
|---|
| Montreal is one of the best places in the world to eat out. As a rule, I have had nothing but great service and excellent gastronomic experiences. These two stories are unfortunate exceptions to this rule. |
My family and I went inside and found a nice table in the tastefully lit, well-salsa’d environment. We noticed the abundance of Beautiful People flitting about - typical for a summertime Prince Arthur Street evening. But even midst the distractions of Spanish-speaking waitstaff and Mariah Carey on the big screen, we found five minutes to be excruciatingly long before being brought a menu. And these, brought without decorum and nary a “hello.”
Ok fine, you figure they’re swamped, they’re busy, whatever - I’ll have a daiquiri and chill my tabarnaco ass out. But no - the fun was just getting started. Aside from the mixed drink being so sweet it nearly induced hyperglycemic blindness and the Sol beer being so watery as to be practically non-alcoholic, the evening’s proceedings consisted of:
- tacos con carne being neither in a taco shell nor con carne (that means “with beef,” jefe)
- having great difficulty in getting a waiter’s attention for more fluids
- managing not one, not two, but THREE waiters taking my orders for drinks and (finally) supper
- not bringing the included drink with my daughter’s meal
- giving our bill to the adjacent table
- waiting another five minutes for dessert
- a general vibe of incompetent unpleasantness
No es pendejo
I thought the fun would end there, as I coughed up sixty bucks, left a tip that reflected what I thought of the service and then, being visibly peeved, exited before dessert arrived. But no - as I’m walking away down the pedestrian street, transaction finished, experience over, the “concerned” head waiter accosts me in public, on the street, with “Sir, you know the standard tip is fifteen percent for the service.” In my head, my razor sharp wit was screaming out, “No shit Sherlock - and to think - I gave you twice the tip as the service you gave me. Oh wait - two times zero is zero! BWAHAHAROFLROFLMAOLOLOLOLWTFBBQ!!!!!!1one”
Instead, I blurted “Yeah! Sometimes it’s even twenty percent!” Nice. But, cooperatively, I went on to calmly explain and enumerate how the shittiness of the evening reflected the shittiness of my tip (somewhere in the two percent range). He said, “ok sir,” smiled, clapped me on the back and went on his merry way. I’m sure he cursed me and my entire extended family out in Spanish when he got back inside. Que lassima!
Case Study Number Two : Waitress Gone Wild
Hi! How may I take your money?
Prior to having possibly the best filet mignon of my life at Restaurant Aix in Montreal, my culinary experience was marred by the pinnacle of Extreme Bad Waitressing. But not “bad” as in “incompetent.” This bad was sneaky and emascualtingly evil.
Before our dinner, Renelde and I decided to go up to the terrasse and have a drink. It was sunny, it was exclusive. There were stars and hot waitresses. What more could an almost-famous musician Musician not to be confused with “drummer” and sometimes “trombonist”; lowest member of the “entertainment industry” hierarchy; poor, starving, sometimes homeless person, often with meth or heroin addiction; hearing-impaired and sometimes tone deaf; has cool clothes and can sleep with nearly any woman who sees him onstage, even if he can’t play very well; if schooled institutionally, may go on to become unsuccessful at teaching and eventually commit suicide; DJ who can’t scratch and his wife ask for? We ordered a round, watched the sun set, whispered about Guy A. Lepage and other stars-du-jour and got ready to go back downstairs. I sidled up to the bar to pay our tab - an easy sixteen dollars. I hand the waitress a twenty. She palms it away and says, “Are we good like that?”
Right away, alarm bells start going off in my head. What did she mean “are we good like that?” Oh no - I’m going to have to say “no” and look like a totally cheap date. In front of the bar full of high rollers (all now staring at me). In front of my wife. In front of the hot waitresses. I knew this was not the way to do a proper business transaction: I’m supposed to give you the money, you give me the change and then I get to (discreetly) decide how much tip to leave. But she would have nothing of my Business 1.0 shenanigans.
“Uh, no, we’re not good like that,” I retorted. “Oh, well,” she replied,“how much would you like back then?”
Aix terrasse
Home to Extreme Waitressing
“Bizznitch, what the frakk, yo” I thought to myself in my finest mental Battlestar Galactica hiphop freestyle. What sheer genius, as the amount I would request back was surely in inverse proportion to the size of my manlyhoodliness.
Then, my brain started calculating : “well, she owes me four, and I should leave a two dollar tip on sixteen, but then I’m just going to ask for two dollars back from her, in front of all these people and feel really really po’.”
I swallowed hard and mustered, “Give me back two dollars.” As she slowly gave me my “change,” the terrasse started to spin and I was sure I could hear laughter at the size of my pay cheque. This girl was a pro. I had been totally PWNED - and I didn’t like it.
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Even When You PWN, you Lose
I didn’t appreciate the treatment I got in either case, nor the feelings I experienced as a result. Do I own some of these feelings, these insecurities? Of course. But I strongly object to being put in a position where the modus operandi is humiliation - and in both these cases, it clearly was. When waitstaff has to resort to these cheap tactics to make a few bucks, what does that say about the trade? About the ethics? About the politics of tipping? About labour practises and employer exploitation of these workers who often make (less than) minimum wage? Where is the love?
I’m of the traditional North American tipping ethic where a tip is not a waiter’s God-given right to receive, but rather a client’s choice to bestow. Granted, I always want to tip. I would really rather leave something. Otherwise, you seriously just look like a cheap ass. But when the service is piss-poor and the staff is obviously not trained properly, as this bunch wasn’t, sorry, but the tip jar won’t runneth over tonight.
Back Up Offa Mah Tip
But is withholding your tip really a viable form of protest? Does it teach the waiters anything? Is the message clear? In the short term, I don’t think so. My waiter will prattle on for the rest of the night about the “asshole who left no tip.” His buddies will laugh. Maybe he’ll recognize me on the street and smile the condescending “Eff-You” smile. All that because the service was sub-standard - and I, the non-tipper, am the bad guy. Even when you win, you lose.
But, maybe in the medium-term, some of the better waiters will take a step back and think, “hmm... I’m not making as much cash as so-and-so; what can I do to be better - and make more cash?” At the end of the day I’m still a cheap bastard, but maybe you’re a better waiter for it. Yeah, that’s right - thank me later. And get the hell off my back about my “tip.” The service isn’t included? You damn right it wasn’t.
