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By Max Hudgins
In August, I stepped into a dim, drab dive bar in Bushwick.
Bushwick is ground zero for Brooklyn’s gentrification. The barstools were torn, and the drink prices seemed unbelievably cheap for New York. It was authentic. Or seemed authentic. It looked like the place where a small cut would send you to the hospital with some new and unknown type of venereal disease. A place that looked as though it had seen enough cases of the clap to give a standing ovation.
My friends and I ordered two beers each, we drank, we talked, and, after an hour, we stood up to leave. I asked the bartender for the bill. He was a large and bearded man in denim overalls and a trucker hat – clothes more of Missouri than Brooklyn, leading me to believe the man was some sort of progressive refugee. He turned around to take my card and inserted it into a black card reader.
The barman then stuck the card reader in my face, my credit card jutting out of the top. A sense of preemptive shame fell upon me as the barman’s eyes trained on me. Three numbers – 23%, 27%, and 30% – lit up the screen beneath a terrible question: “Would you like to leave a tip?”
I chose the smallest option.
I have no issue tipping bartenders or any kind of server. Both those jobs got me through college and the penniless months that followed, before starting at Roca. Yet considering that the service amounted to two pours from a man more focused on the game, 23% felt a bit excessive. Before we could do anything about it, though, the barman’s gaze forced each of my friends and me into the same humiliation ritual. 23% it would be.
We Americans are accustomed to tipping on the bill. In the last five years, though, it’s gotten to the point where it’s not just bars and restaurants asking for tips. It’s everywhere: Coffee shops, bakeries, ice cream shops, concession stands. At a bookstore, I was recently asked to leave a 15% tip upon checking out. On more than one occasion, I’ve been asked to tip at self-service checkouts.
I was born in the shadow of 9/11, but even I’m old enough to remember when 15% was considered standard. Hell, anything over 12% in the 90s meant your waiter probably gave you a bump of coke, right? So how did tipping get out of control? Which factors – and companies – pushed it here?
That’s the subject of today’s deep-dive.
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Editor’s Note
Today’s story was brought to you by Roca’s third Max, Max Hudgins. We want to hear your thoughts: How much should we tip? When should we tip? Should we tip at all? Let us know by replying to this email – especially our service-industry readers. We want your takes.
And if you’re interested in more weekend reading, here are our latest stories:
See you back here tomorrow.
—Max and Max
