God bless you, too, I’m sure, and thanks for the … seven cents, bitch.
From a couple summers spent waitressing at a “Mexican” restaurant (which wasn’t all that Mexican — just a lot of cheese and crummy salsa, owned by the whitest people I knew in Whiteytown) and “cantina” (Whiteytown was a dry town in a dry county and served no booze of any kind, which often came as a surprise to the unwary customer driving through town, seeing our sign, stopping there in the not unreasonable hope that they could have beer with their “Tex-Mex,” and then being informed to the contrary by a teenage waitress such as myself):
Top Ten Worst Tippers
10) People who thought it was really a cantina.
You know, people who want a drink get mad when they've been snookered in by false advertising. Can't say I blame them.
9) Teenagers.
Loud, cheap, and out of control — usually nice enough, but you know, they don’t have any money, and they leave the table a complete fucking mess. They’d generally try to give you 10% if they had it.
8) Seniors.
I mean, the AARP-discount type. Nothing against them — I am a friend to the elderly — but some of them had 1932 rates fixed in their minds and would most sincerely think the shiny $1.50 in quarters that they left was a really nice tip. I never got mad when this happened — it’s all about the intent.
7) Local celebs.
We never had any real celebrities — just the local variety (e.g. the head football coach at the high school, the mayor, the wife of the richest guy in town) — and they were unfailingly stingy. Their tip was their glowing presence, I guess.
6) Chatty McTalkersons.
A certain breed of person will spend the entire meal chatting you up, neighborly-like — getting your opinion on the specials, befriending you, asking for all kinds of favors, making you think you’ll be rewarded monetarily. And then they’ll tip 10% on the before-tax total. Thanks, it’s been real nice making friends with you, ya cheap bastard.
5) Cops.
In nearly every restaurant in town, including this one, the cops got 50% off of their entire bill. They’d “joke” with you the entire time, ask you out relentlessly (especially the married ones), then toss a buck or two on the table as they left.
4) Families with small children.
Run you ragged, smile when their lil nippers threw half-chewed animal crackers at your face, make you clean up three or seven spilled glasses of milk or Hi-C, and then leave no tip. Once, the dad left a nice tip, and the mom doubled back as they were leaving; while Dad was busy corralling the kids, she looked straight at me and took a fiver out of the stack.
3) The owners of the restaurant.
What a bunch of asshole cheapskates these people were. Whether they were in alone, or together, or with their entire huge family taking up three tables pushed together and keeping four waitresses in constant motion for three hours, they never, ever, EVER tipped a dime.
2) Groups of women.
Oh. My. God. When the hostess sat a group of women in your section, you knew what you were in for: A completely customized order from each one of them (“I’ll have the Sancho Panza Platter, but with chicken enchiladas — one with sauce, one without — instead of pork tamales, and a green salad instead of rice, and extra avocado on the tostada, and sour cream on the side. Did you get that? ON. THE. SIDE. Write that down. And make sure the taco is hot this time. Oh, and no salsa. Gives me heartburn.”), at least a dozen requests for stuff like more cream for their coffee, a different kind of sweetener for everyone, a new fork or three, extra lemons, et fucking cetera. And then at the end, they’d either take a solid hour divvying up the bill (“Mary Nell, you had that second Coke, so that’s … 97 cents more for you; my meal was $8.75 and Lureen’s was $8.25 so that’s 50 cents to her … Sue Ann didn’t eat any of the cheese dip so that’s … 70 cents to her … “) or ask for separate checks — often after you’d presented the bill, so you’d have to go in, void it, and re-enter the damn thing five times. And then they’d all tip a crisp dollar each.
1) Groups of Baptists just come from church on Sunday noon or Wednesday evening.
These people would come in in their flowerdy dresses and ill-fitting suits, pumped up with their own righteousness, making the heathens cook (see, they weren’t supposed to work on Sunday, but it was OK for you to), getting non-stop refills on their giant iced teas, ordering like one tostada and sitting there for two hours — and then they’d get up, leave some pocket change and a little Bible verse tract, and say “God bless you!” as they waddled off.
Top Ten Worst Tippers
10) People who thought it was really a cantina.
You know, people who want a drink get mad when they've been snookered in by false advertising. Can't say I blame them.
9) Teenagers.
Loud, cheap, and out of control — usually nice enough, but you know, they don’t have any money, and they leave the table a complete fucking mess. They’d generally try to give you 10% if they had it.
8) Seniors.
I mean, the AARP-discount type. Nothing against them — I am a friend to the elderly — but some of them had 1932 rates fixed in their minds and would most sincerely think the shiny $1.50 in quarters that they left was a really nice tip. I never got mad when this happened — it’s all about the intent.
7) Local celebs.
We never had any real celebrities — just the local variety (e.g. the head football coach at the high school, the mayor, the wife of the richest guy in town) — and they were unfailingly stingy. Their tip was their glowing presence, I guess.
6) Chatty McTalkersons.
A certain breed of person will spend the entire meal chatting you up, neighborly-like — getting your opinion on the specials, befriending you, asking for all kinds of favors, making you think you’ll be rewarded monetarily. And then they’ll tip 10% on the before-tax total. Thanks, it’s been real nice making friends with you, ya cheap bastard.
5) Cops.
In nearly every restaurant in town, including this one, the cops got 50% off of their entire bill. They’d “joke” with you the entire time, ask you out relentlessly (especially the married ones), then toss a buck or two on the table as they left.
4) Families with small children.
Run you ragged, smile when their lil nippers threw half-chewed animal crackers at your face, make you clean up three or seven spilled glasses of milk or Hi-C, and then leave no tip. Once, the dad left a nice tip, and the mom doubled back as they were leaving; while Dad was busy corralling the kids, she looked straight at me and took a fiver out of the stack.
3) The owners of the restaurant.
What a bunch of asshole cheapskates these people were. Whether they were in alone, or together, or with their entire huge family taking up three tables pushed together and keeping four waitresses in constant motion for three hours, they never, ever, EVER tipped a dime.
2) Groups of women.
Oh. My. God. When the hostess sat a group of women in your section, you knew what you were in for: A completely customized order from each one of them (“I’ll have the Sancho Panza Platter, but with chicken enchiladas — one with sauce, one without — instead of pork tamales, and a green salad instead of rice, and extra avocado on the tostada, and sour cream on the side. Did you get that? ON. THE. SIDE. Write that down. And make sure the taco is hot this time. Oh, and no salsa. Gives me heartburn.”), at least a dozen requests for stuff like more cream for their coffee, a different kind of sweetener for everyone, a new fork or three, extra lemons, et fucking cetera. And then at the end, they’d either take a solid hour divvying up the bill (“Mary Nell, you had that second Coke, so that’s … 97 cents more for you; my meal was $8.75 and Lureen’s was $8.25 so that’s 50 cents to her … Sue Ann didn’t eat any of the cheese dip so that’s … 70 cents to her … “) or ask for separate checks — often after you’d presented the bill, so you’d have to go in, void it, and re-enter the damn thing five times. And then they’d all tip a crisp dollar each.
1) Groups of Baptists just come from church on Sunday noon or Wednesday evening.
These people would come in in their flowerdy dresses and ill-fitting suits, pumped up with their own righteousness, making the heathens cook (see, they weren’t supposed to work on Sunday, but it was OK for you to), getting non-stop refills on their giant iced teas, ordering like one tostada and sitting there for two hours — and then they’d get up, leave some pocket change and a little Bible verse tract, and say “God bless you!” as they waddled off.
posted by Gleemonex at 10:35 AM
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