Waiting; The True Confessions of a Waitress by Debra Ginsberg Page B

their waitress offered them a full body massage, never mind a light touch on the shoulder. Others will tip high if their server just leaves them alone and remains invisible. The fact that there is no way of telling which way it’s going to go with a partic ular table is part of the challenge and excitement of waiting. Nat ural disasters and lazy busboys notwithstanding, how I fare on a particular table, night, or week is entirely up to me and my ability to mold myself to the customer.
    Servers dislike being punished, certainly, but they also feel uneasy being rewarded unjustly. I can recall plenty of instances where waitresses receiving exorbitant tips have approached customers and asked if they really meant to leave so much money. It’s a way of getting affirmation (because hardly anyone errs on the side of too much) for a job well done. And perhaps because financial success at this job does require living by one’s wits, waiters (even those who swear that they’re quitting at the end of the shift) want and need to take pride in what they do.
    Unfortunately, this very philosophy leads to the formation of certain prejudices on the part of waiters and waitresses every where. The same radar that allows a seasoned waiter to know what a particular customer needs also cues him to anticipate the amount of a tip based on a patron’s gender, age, profession, and nationality.
    For several years I’ve worked in a city that thrives on a healthy tourist trade. The restaurants here regularly serve people from all over the world as well as a large group of (mostly moneyed) locals. Ask any waiter in my restaurant to describe his ideal table and he’ll tell you “four businessmen in suits.” Preferably stock brokers from New York. The worst? Probably a party of French women with children in tow. For better or worse, customers are instantly categorized as soon as the waiter approaches the table (sometimes even earlier). Every waiter and waitress I’ve worked beside agrees that almost everyone from the East Coast can be counted on for a good tip. They also agree that Europeans are the very worst tippers. I’ve actually seen fights break out over which country, France or Germany, has the cheapest diners.
    (Of course, in Europe, the service is included in the bill, so the argument can be made that these guests are unaware that they are supposed to tip in this country. However, the level of sophistication among our European patrons implies that they are, in fact, aware of this American custom and simply choose to feign ignorance.)
    As far as gender goes, there are some unwritten rules that almost always apply. Men (unfortunately this really is true) usually tip better than women. And men tip pretty waitresses best of all. This is probably due to complex psychological reasons best not gotten into here. There is one customer in particular, a regular diner in my restaurant, who becomes enraged if he sees a male waiter at his table. “Get me a girl,” he always says. “I want a girl to wait on me.” Women (at least in my experience) tip lightly in general, but tip waitresses worse than waiters. I have given away countless tables to my male coworkers upon encountering unbridled hostility the minute I approached a table of women. The younger the women, the tougher they are to wait on and the lower the tip at the end of the meal. I swear I have actually heard hissing at some of these tables when my back was turned. Frankly, I can do without these women, who threaten my fragile belief in universal sisterhood. I’d much rather give up the table and let them torture a waiter for two hours. Incidentally, I am not alone in my observations of gender-based tipping policies. Those silly studies, already mentioned, back me up completely.
    Finally, there is one type of customer who transcends all boundaries of gender, age, and nationality. That customer is a fel low server. When waiters and waitresses dine out, they can always expect exemplary