Tipping Epiphany
I was at my favorite cafe the other evening having my favorite snack--totopos--chips with salsa, the delicious Mexican kind, fresh from the oven, with a Corona. I watched the action in the plaza, the people, the dogs. Classic Mexico evening.
But all good things come to an end, and before long I looked up and saw that my plate of totopos was empty. I signaled the waiter and asked for another plate. "It may not be authorized," he said, sounding reluctant. One serving of totopos is usually on the house; more than that depends.
Moments later he returned with a second heaping plate of totopos. I rewarded him with a big smile.
Another few moments later, I looked up again, and tragically, once again they were all gone. But this time even I was not going to order a third plate. So I got the check and paid.
Now, the existential question: How much to tip? The bill was only 15 pesos for a beer (about $1.50 U.S.). Normally I'd leave 5 pesos, or 50 cents. Sometimes, if you just have a drink, people leave nothing. But he had, after all, enabled me to have not one but two generous helpings of my favorite snack. Dinner, really. He could have found a way to charge me for the second plate, or denied me it.
I pulled out a 10 peso coin (one dollar), and left it on the table, stood up, and walked away, my head high, smiling at the waiter as I left, feeling a sense of pride.
This probably sounds ridiculous. But I'm not exaggerating. That is how I felt. Whereas usually I would have left 5 pesos or nothing, and skulked away feeling guilty and defensive.
See, I'm notoriously cheap, and I often do battle within myself over what I "should" leave versus what I can get away with leaving, and often the "get away with" family fighter wins.
But this particular evening, I suddenly had a powerful insight: I tip for me. I tip so I can hold my head high and walk away with self-respect and dignity. I tip so I can feel peace of mind and be free of arguments in my head the rest of the evening.
This insight feels profound. I hope it'll make it easier for me to tip in the future, knowing I'm doing it for me and no one else.
But all good things come to an end, and before long I looked up and saw that my plate of totopos was empty. I signaled the waiter and asked for another plate. "It may not be authorized," he said, sounding reluctant. One serving of totopos is usually on the house; more than that depends.
Moments later he returned with a second heaping plate of totopos. I rewarded him with a big smile.
Another few moments later, I looked up again, and tragically, once again they were all gone. But this time even I was not going to order a third plate. So I got the check and paid.
Now, the existential question: How much to tip? The bill was only 15 pesos for a beer (about $1.50 U.S.). Normally I'd leave 5 pesos, or 50 cents. Sometimes, if you just have a drink, people leave nothing. But he had, after all, enabled me to have not one but two generous helpings of my favorite snack. Dinner, really. He could have found a way to charge me for the second plate, or denied me it.
I pulled out a 10 peso coin (one dollar), and left it on the table, stood up, and walked away, my head high, smiling at the waiter as I left, feeling a sense of pride.
This probably sounds ridiculous. But I'm not exaggerating. That is how I felt. Whereas usually I would have left 5 pesos or nothing, and skulked away feeling guilty and defensive.
See, I'm notoriously cheap, and I often do battle within myself over what I "should" leave versus what I can get away with leaving, and often the "get away with" family fighter wins.
But this particular evening, I suddenly had a powerful insight: I tip for me. I tip so I can hold my head high and walk away with self-respect and dignity. I tip so I can feel peace of mind and be free of arguments in my head the rest of the evening.
This insight feels profound. I hope it'll make it easier for me to tip in the future, knowing I'm doing it for me and no one else.
posted by Louisa at 3:00 AM
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