The Tipping Point
2011-10-11 10:40
Last Sunday I ordered a take-away meal as I was leaving King Shaka International (and what better reason to go to Durban than to simply turn around and leave it in a hurry). My intention was to eat the meal on the plane, so I didn’t require the cashier to bring my food to a table.
Still, I gave her a R10 tip (R30 meal) for essentially standing there (albeit grinning sweetly) and inputting my order into a computer. Well, I’ve never seen anyone look so happy at receiving so little. She practically skipped through to the kitchen area to collect my Mexican wrap and handed it over with such pomp and ceremony (a praise singer appeared, I was fanned all the way to my flight with ostrich feathers) that other customers were starting to wonder if I’d promised her a platinum mine in Phokeng for a little extra chicken on the wrap.
At restaurants I’ve been known to get a wee bit excited in the company of good friends and good drink (obviously), and pay way above the going rate for services rendered when the bill comes. In fact, as I recall somewhat hazily, the last time I ate out I tipped my young waiter friend about way too much (I did do this on the proviso, though, that he saved up to pay for laser surgery to remove his awful Sharks tattoo).
This is not to say that I’m some shining beacon of generosity. Far from it. I’ll gladly drive over a Big Issue vendor/hanger salesman/windscreen washer and so on if he or she gets in my way. Nor am I so flush with cash that I can afford to give my loot away in the manner of some fine-dining, over generous Robin Hood every time I eat out. But there are times when you know that begrudgingly signing off on the 10% is not enough, and a little extra can go a long way.
Petrol pamper
I dated an incredibly wealthy girl once. She was a fantastic person (apart from that time when she broke up with me at three in the morning in a strange town, and I had nowhere to go), but she was a terrible tipper, which is odd when I recall how her dad used to give me 10 bucks just to pour him a glass of wine on a Sunday afternoon. She, and many girlfriends since, could never understand why I got so flustered at a petrol station when I had nothing to give the attendant.
With waiters and waitresses you’re sometimes dealing with morons (ironically, these are typically the guys and girls with good educations in search of extra iPhone App money), but I’ve never known a petrol attendant to get my order wrong, nor have I ever been served at a petrol station by a surly looking cretin in jean pants six sizes too small. Sure, they might all be as high as kites on the forecourt fumes, but they’re a jolly bunch considering what they do for a living.
And to be honest, a shiny R2 coin no longer suffices when tipping your petrol attendant. If you’re one of those people who still does that, then shame on you. Even if I get some tortoise-like geriatric who smears an oil-stained serviette across my windscreen (grinning gormlessly at all times, of course), I still give the poor bugger a crisp tenner.
I don’t feel sorry for them. I don’t do it out of pity. I do it because these guys stand there, rain, hail, shine, or bad manners of their customers, smiling and friendly to the bitter end. Cashiers, waiters (the good ones, man, not the twerps who ask you what you’ve ordered five times), petrol pumpers, anyone you can think of who needs a tip, give a good one. You’ll make someone’s day through no effort at all.
Send your comments to David
Disclaimer: News24 encourages freedom of speech and the
expression of diverse views. The views of columnists published on
News24 are therefore their own and do not necessarily represent the
views of News24.
- News24