Tipping Guide
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Tipping Guide

One reason tipping creates such anxiety is that it attaches a price tag to human interaction. Perhaps that's why, as Guy Trebay explains, it may be best to tip with your heart—and forget about formulas.

I tip wrong—too much or too little. I tip emotionally, exactly as the experts say never
to do. I tip for results and don't get them, or according to who's watching or to what I have
on me. Sometimes—hotel doormen—I tip not at all because, like most people, I rarely
arrive in foreign cities with the correct and respectable amount of yen or euros rattling
around in my pocket.

And what is the right amount?It's a riddle for the ages. Most tipping guides, it strikes
me, are about as useful in the creakiness of the formulas they offer as in the somewhat dubious
factoids on tipping history they tend to provide.

Is tipping really an invention of the Middle Ages?Or did the custom get its start when 16th-century
tavern patrons tossed coins on the floor to inspire tankard-hauling wenches to speed
up the service?Or can the word have originated, as the authors of The Itty Bitty Guide
to Tipping
propose, in a London pub where there was a bowl labeled TO INSURE PROMPTITUDE?
Logic, I'm afraid, suggests otherwise, since leaving something in a tip jar is no guarantee
of much.

To follow the advice of the countless etiquette books and laminated pocket guides and primers
that address the subject is to conclude that tipping correctly is a matter of transforming
oneself into an ambulating ATM, spitting out bills to anyone who pulls a lever on a coffee
machine. Typically the advice can be reduced to one general and almost universal formula:
tack 15 percent onto any bill, add roughly $2 to any exchange not regulated by tariff, and
remember that tipping is considered gauche in Japan (not really true anymore).

While these books sometimes make for amusing reading, they rarely offer guidance on how to
deal with the low-level anxiety that is their obvious reason for being in the first place.
They fail to address the resentment that has largely supplanted gratitude now that nearly
every human transaction is tacitly subject to surcharge. And they certainly don't take into
account the power of public ridicule. See, please: www.bitterwaitress.com.
(Although you might want to skip this sewer of on-line vitriol if you tip like Howard Hughes
or if your name is Jennifer Lopez.)

Don't get me wrong. I believe in reward for service. I respect honest labor. I deplore the
conditions under which many people toil at jobs where they are expected to compensate for
income shortfall by becoming "lovable" gum-cracking hash slingers like the kooky cartoon waitress
Cher used to play on TV. Although I am assured that few people do it anymore, I take pleasure
in supplementing the wages of most hotel housekeepers by leaving my daily five bucks
on the pillow, inside a hotel envelope with grazie or merci or danke scrawled on the front.
Even that act, however, has its roots in superstition, the sense that by recognizing the existence
of the mostly invisible person who cleans my room, I may stave off pilferage or, worse, becoming
the victim of an art project, as happened to the hapless hotel guests whose habits were ruthlessly
documented by the French "artist" Sophie Calle while posing as a maid.

And, let's face it, tipping is generally an elaborate form of paying baksheesh. I accept
that. At a hotel where I used to stay in Paris, my first stop before heading to my room
was always the concierge station. There I performed what I think of as a good impersonation
of masculine assurance, grasping this man's hand in a hearty handshake while slipping him
an envelope. The exchange was a form of Kabuki, a theatrical moment during which we each conspired
to imagine that this gesture was a subtle token of mutual understanding and nothing as Enron-grubby
as a bribe.

But a bribe it was. The man so proudly kitted out in his canary vest and midnight blue tailcoat
understood this. Being a travel realist, so did I. Among the doors to be opened by the gleaming
keys he wore on his lapel were those to Le Voltaire, the superb dining place where getting
a reservation is impossible unless you were christened Catherine Deneuve or have a fixer
from the global concierge mafia on your side.

Yet success is not guaranteed, even at that. One season, this concierge suddenly failed me,
and not just at Le Voltaire but also at Benoît and even at the homey little Right Bank
place where I have often dined. What went wrong, I wondered?Had I forgotten to factor a COLA
increase into his envelope?Where had the smile gone, the warmly phony bonhomie?In their
place was that expression of resignation the French delight in assuming when resorting to
the most enduring of Gallic defaults: "So sorry,'' he told me. "It is impossible.''

I no longer stay at that hotel. A deal, however iffy or rigged, is a deal. Likewise, a cup
of coffee is just that. "Next time you get your tall triple-shot almond latte with whipped
cream at 8 A.M., remember that the person who made it was probably at work three hours before
you hit the snooze button,'' a blog-ger recently ranted on a tipping Web site. How much of
that barista's tip-cup cream, one wondered, was skimmed off for the Kenyan coffee pickers
who would probably consider a dawn wake-up call the greatest of life's luxuries?

This is not just a rhetorical question. The least venal part of the tipping transaction is
the one that concedes the existence of others, the chain of interdependence linking all of
us along the chain of supply.

Whether in wealthy countries like France (where waiters are paid properly), or in what used
to be called the Third World (where calculating tips in local currency and according to prevailing
economies becomes both a nagging dilemma and a kind of joke), it seems important to be generous,
dispensing largesse while keeping in mind that life is not a Jerry Lewis telethon. Tip badly,
irrationally, all wrong, is my policy now. Then let go of the issue. Whatever I don't palm
to a doorman, I tithe in a monthly envelope sent to charity.

Guy Trebay is a reporter for The New York Times.

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