The tipping point

To tip or not to tip: that is the question. And often, there is no good answer

 

I have to confess that the recent brouhaha about the service charge that restaurants tag on to their bills (and whether consumers are bound to pay it) left me rather unmoved. And that’s because it’s an entirely different minefield that occupies my mind when I eat out: tipping. 

 

As a concept, it is simple enough. If you have eaten a meal and enjoyed it, then you leave a little something to thank the service staff. But how much do you leave – and how do you leave it? It’s a tricky business because the answer varies widely from country to country. In some places, ten per cent is a perfectly acceptable tip. In others, anything less than twenty per cent is a virtual insult. In some places, you can add the amount on to your bill and pay by credit card. In others, it is expected that you tip in cash only. In some places, you are not expected to tip if a service charge is added. In others, the waiters will chase you outside into the street if you don’t top up the service charge with a little extra.

 

As I said, it’s a veritable minefield. And no matter what choice I make, it invariably turns out to be the wrong one (at least, judging by the look on my server’s face!).

 

What’s worse is that it’s not just restaurants that leave you struggling to make sense of this business. The entire hospitality sector joins in to make your life miserable. Checking into a hotel abroad and need help with your bags? How much should you tip the staff member who carries it up? It sounds like a simple question but it can be challenging if you haven’t quite worked out the exchange rate. And what if you don’t have any small notes in the local currency, having just arrived in the country? Do you apologize for the fact that you aren’t sufficiently organized or just brazen it out with effusive ‘thank yous’ while the staffer hangs around ostentatiously looking for a tip?

 

It can be even more complicated in Indian hotels, when you are escorted up to your room by assorted staff members, all of them in uniform. All you can do is take a guess as to which one of them you are expected to tip. And the chances are that he or she will leap back with indignation from your proffered hand and say with great dignity, “Oh no, ma’am, I am the manager!” leaving you all red and flustered.

 

Some hotels make it easy for guests by mentioning clearly that they have a no-tipping policy. And that if you want to leave a little something for the staff then you can put it in envelope and leave it at reception, where it will be put in the general pot for everyone to share. But most hotels don’t follow that eminently sensible policy. So, you are left wondering if you need to tip every time you order something from room service; whether you need to give the woman making your bed and cleaning your loo a little extra something (or will you end up offending her?); and if a tip is mandated for the doorman who snaps forward to open your car door for you. And what about the spa operator? Does she get a tip as well? And how do you do that when you have left your wallet safely locked in your room?

 

I don’t know about you, but questions like these run constantly through my head when I am staying at a hotel. So, what should be a restful vacation turns into a stressful exercise in second guessing.

 

It doesn’t end even when you leave the confines of your hotel. Does your taxi driver expect to be tipped? Well, that depends on which country you are in. Is a 10 per cent tip enough for the hairstylist who gave you that very expensive haircut? Or does his tight smile mean he was expecting something around 20 per cent? And what about the porter you hired to help with your bags at the airport? You’ve paid his fee but he’s hanging around, looking like he expects a little more for his trouble.

 

Honestly, it’s quite enough to make you reach your own tipping point!

Listening in...

Sometimes all you need is a couple of overheard sentences to get a glimpse into someone's life

Shaming though it undoubtedly is, I have to confess that I am one of the world's eavesdroppers. I go through the day, snatching up fragments of other people's conversations, trying to get a glimpse into their lives through that snapshot in time. Truth be told, I treat the people around me as performers who are putting up a private cabaret, entirely for my entertainment and amusement -- or even as inspiration for my next column. As the late great Nora Ephron once said, everything is copy.

There was a time when I used to practice my craft in restaurants. I loved listening in to awkward conversations of people on first dates. I giggled on the inside as ladies who lunched tore into one of their absent friends. I eavesdropped on the silences that marked long-married couples dining together; more telling than any words could have been. I squirmed as I overheard a couple breaking up messily at the next table. And yet, I kept on listening.

Those days, alas, are long over. No, I still go to restaurants. And yes, I still love to eavesdrop. But sadly, these days restaurants don't offer much in the way of conversations that can be listened to. Everyone is far too busy taking pictures of their food and Instagraming it, posting pithy food reviews on Twitter or updating their Facebook to do anything as mundane as talk to one another. 

Thankfully, however, the voyeur in me has found a different venue to feed my habit. Actually make that several different venues; basically anywhere where I go walking in the evening, whether it is Lodi Garden in Delhi or Marine Drive in Mumbai.

Unlike almost everyone I know, I don't listen to music when I go walking. Nor do I keep my eyes glued to my phone, scrolling down sundry social media sites, messaging a friend or emailing the office. No, that's not for me. I keep my eyes peeled and ears on alert to catch the conversations happening around me. And trust me, it's great entertainment. 

Let's take last evening, when I went on a walk down Marine Drive. There were the usual sights that we all take for granted. The pairs of lovers sitting on the railings, secure in their own invisibility because their backs were turned to the milling crowds on the streets. The sun making a spectacle of its everyday task of sinking into the dark blue waters of the Arabian Sea. And the evening walkers, marching determinedly on, white earphones peaking out of their ears.

But I wasn't interested in any of them. It was the people who were walking in twos, talking animatedly to one another, that interested me. 

There was the young couple, clad head to toe in Lycra, the mom pushing a buggy with a sleeping child in it, the dad carrying baby supplies in his backpack. Mum: "...I don't care what your mother thinks. This is my child, not hers." Dad: "She's only trying to help. You keep saying that no one helps and then when she does..."

That's all I caught as I walked briskly past them. But in those two sentences I could hear their entire story. First-time parents working long hours in office, the doting grandmother filling in as unpaid babysitter, the insecure young mom scared that she was losing control of her child, the harried young father caught between two strong maternal forces. Shorn of its details, it was a story as old as time itself. 

A little further on, I fell into step with two 50-something ladies, walking with the companionable air of old friends. Lady one: "You know that he's gone into rehab, na?" Lady two: "I know. I don't understand why her parents don't just call off the engagement." Lady one: "Arre, he used to spend nights there..." Lady two: "Sorry, but I don't approve of all this nonsense!"

There you have it: the culture clash that characterizes today's India. Two young people, engaged to be married, indulging in a bit of pre-marital sex, leading to shock-horror all around. Mix in a bit of recreational drug-taking and you have the making of a society scandal. Will the rehab take? Will they live happily ever after? Sadly, I'll never know.

As I turned around to retrace my steps to where my car was parked, I found myself behind a couple who were done with necking at the sea's edge and were now walking arms entwined, hips joined, whispering sweet nothings to one another. The phrases 'love you' 'love you more' floated happily in the air, until with a loud gasp, the girl disentangled herself, and whispered agitatedly to her boyfriend, "Stay away, that's my chacha in front." 

We may tell ourselves that we are living in a modern, liberal society. But when two teenage lovers come face to face with a family elders in public, they still experience the same panic that generations before them know all too well. Clearly, the more things change, the more they remain the same. 

That's just one of the life lessons I've learnt on my evening walks. Stay tuned for further updates in the months ahead.

Table manners

Going to restaurants would be a much better experience if we all acquired some

I’ve always said that if you want to know how well (or ill) behaved people really are, you only have to observe them in a restaurant setting. I don’t know what it is, but there is something about eating and drinking in a public place that makes people reveal their essential selves. And going purely by my own experience, in eight cases out of ten, this is not a terribly edifying spectacle.

Among the many lovely qualities that you see on display are boastfulness, pride, self-aggrandization, rudeness, bullying, arrogance, belligerence, with a little lying and cheating thrown in for good measure.

There will be people who arrive without a booking but expect a table on the strength of their last names, their daddy’s balance sheet, their place in the Union Cabinet or simply because they are best friends with the owner (take your pick). There will be those who take particular pride in being rude and obnoxious to the wait staff and then refuse to leave a tip on the grounds that the service simply did not cut it. And that’s not counting those who will eat their way through a large three-course meal and then summon the manager to complain about the quality in the hope that they won’t be obliged to stump up for it.

On the basis of my largely unscientific research (not to mention empirical observations) I have come up with a guide of what to do and what not to do in a restaurant. Do feel free to pass it on to all those who appear to be in dire need of such a primer!

• Don’t arrive at a restaurant at peak hours without a reservation and expect to be seated immediately on the strength of that time-tested refrain: “Don’t you know who I am?” (To which the only acceptable answer is: “Why? Have you forgotten?”) If you haven’t reserved a table then get in queue like the rest of us.

• If you make a reservation then make sure that you keep it. That means turning up at the restaurant at the appointed time. If you arrive half an hour late and discover that your table has been given away, don’t kick up a fuss. The management has a perfect right to do that especially if you haven’t had the courtesy of calling up and telling them that you will be late.

• If you have made a reservation for four, then don’t turn up with six guests. No restaurant can miraculously whistle up two extra covers at a minute’s notice. And no, it is not possible to add two extra chairs to a table of four. The laws of physics – not to mention restaurant aesthetics – mandate against it.

• Please don’t eat out when you are clearly suffering from the flu. All that sneezing and coughing is enough to put everyone else off their food. Not to mention the very real fear of infection, given how close tables are set these days.

• If you want to bring along your children for lunch or dinner then look after them yourselves. If that’s too much of a strain and you must bring the nanny along, sit her down at your table and treat her like any other member of your party. Don’t make her stand behind your child’s high chair, napkin at the ready to wipe off drool and assorted food stains.

• If there is something wrong with the dish you ordered or you simply don’t like it, return it immediately. Don’t eat your way through three-quarters and then demand a replacement.

• If you want French fries, order your own. Don’t steal them off someone else’s plate while pretending to be an oh-so-abstemious salad-eater.

• Don’t order soufflé for dessert and then complain about how long it is taking. The waiter explained when you ordered it that minimum cooking time was 25 minutes. He wasn’t kidding. It isn’t his fault that you didn’t take him seriously.

• Don’t dawdle over your tea or coffee at peak times when other people are waiting to be seated for their meal. You may be well within your rights to do so, but good manners demand that you relinquish your place to those still waiting to be fed.

• Your waiter is a person, not a sub-human species. So, don’t whistle or cock a finger to attract his attention. If you can’t catch his eye, a loud “Excuse me” usually does the trick. But if he is wearing a name tag then do him the courtesy of addressing him by his name. (Needless to say, the same applies to waitresses.)

• If your favourite coffee place is full, it is not cool to go and stand behind a table that looks as if it may be the first to get vacated in the hope that you can grab it before anyone else. And it is downright rude to ask those seated just how long they are going to take over that cappuccino.

• It doesn’t matter if a 10 per cent service charge is included in your bill. It is still a nice gesture to leave a little something behind for your waiter. For one thing, it will get you better service the next time around. But more than that, it is the right thing to do.

Hang up now!
Is our addiction to mobile phones getting out of hand?

Last night I went out to dinner with some friends. There we were, eating, drinking, chatting and generally having a good time. Except for one of us – who shall remain unnamed out of sheer generosity of spirit – who spent all his time checking his mobile phone for messages and then typing out long replies, completely ignoring the real-life person sitting opposite who was trying to conduct a conversation.

After about an hour of this, I couldn’t resist any longer. When he next began tapping out a message even as another friend was in the middle of telling an interesting story, I piped up indignantly, “I’m sorry, but clearly the people you’re messaging are more interesting than all of us right here. Perhaps you should be having dinner with them instead?”

To his credit, the gentleman was suitably abashed at being called out on his bad behaviour. He turned a deep red, muttered unconvincingly about how it was his daughter on the phone. He then put his mobile away ostentatiously, promising that he would not check it again in the course of the evening. And yet, when he thought that nobody was looking, I caught him checking out the display surreptitiously, to
make sure that he hadn’t missed on any calls or smses.

My irritation – and that of my friends – notwithstanding, in the cold light of day I have to admit that none of us can afford to be overly judgemental about these things. And I am the first to confess that I am as much sinned against as sinning. In fact, it was only a week ago that an old friend, with whom I was catching up over lunch, accused me of being a Crackberry addict because I kept checking on the delivery of some urgent emails I had sent out.

So, I guess I shouldn’t be holding forth about the trespasses of others. But you know what, I can’t resist.

Honestly, what is it about mobile phones and us? Why are we always looking at them anxiously, worried that we may have missed some important call during the nanosecond when we weren’t looking? Why do we seem unable to ever disconnect? Why can we never switch off completely? Why have we developed such a symbiotic relationship with
our phones that we appear unable to exist without them? Why are we so addicted to our mobiles that we suffer withdrawal symptoms on the rare occasions we are parted from them?

I still remember the feeling of utter helplessness that engulfed me when I lost my mobile while on holiday a year or so ago. It felt as if I had been disconnected from life itself. Nobody knew how to get in touch with me. Having lost my phone book, I didn’t know how to call anyone. After casting about desperately, I was reduced to emailing people to send me their phone numbers. And all the time, I was in
agony, fretting about all the important calls that I was undoubtedly missing, convinced that there must be some work or family emergency just when I had been rendered incommunicado.

So, don’t get me wrong. Yes, I understand just how important mobile phones are to all of us. You can call the airport from the car to check on the status of your flight. You can keep tabs on your kids no matter where they are. In a medical emergency or in case of anaccident, you don’t have to go around looking for a phone booth to summon help. Your elderly parents can get touch with you at all times.
And after a late night out as you take a taxi home, it is a reassuring feeling to have a mobile phone in your purse so that you can call a friend if anything untoward happens.

I know all this, and yet the tyranny of telephones is beginning to get me a bit miffed. Is it really necessary to take calls when you are in a business meeting? Do you have to have loud conversations on your mobile in a restaurant where everyone else is trying to have a quiet meal? Must the loud ring of your phone disturb everyone else in cinemas, at the theatre, or even during a book reading? Can you not
switch your phone off even when you are visiting a sick friend in hospital?

Surely, life went on even before the mobile phone was invented? We managed to catch flights on time, make restaurant reservations, keep in touch with friends and family, even check our email, long before the mobile became an essential tool of modern life.

So why do people act as if they can’t figure out how we ever coped in its absence? After all, it was only a decade ago that we managed perfectly well without it. Could we really have become so dependent in this short space of time?

I guess the short answer to that is yes. But sometimes it makes sense to do without something you feel is essential to your life – if only to prove to yourself that you can. So maybe it is time to ditch the mobile phone – one hour at a time.

I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to go cold turkey just yet. And I’m guessing that nor are you.