Before rustic jam jars with jaunty little signs shouting “Show us your tips!” started popping up on coffee shop counters and Sunday brunch receipts came garnished with a special “gratuity” section right above the signature line?
I know I’m going to sound like a total tight-arse but here’s my two cents (no pun intended — I really am that cheap): Tipping in Australia stinks.
Twenty years ago tipping in Australia barely existed. We used to roll our eyes at the Yankee-ness and wankiness of it all. Remember when Dougie the Delivery boy dared to ask for a tip in that old Pizza Hut ad?
A grunt and “Work hard and be good to your mother,” was all he got.
These days we linger at tables long after the plates have gone, agonising and arguing over how much extra we should leave, all the while trying to figure out how we can pay the mortgage and not seem like arseholes at the same time.
Just keep the change? No way, maybe a lazy tenner? Hang on, what if it’s not 12.5 per cent?
I asked a mate who runs a fancy Sydney restaurant what he thought was reasonable. “Always tip, at least 10 per cent,” he said.
As they say, you should always back Self-Interest. It’s the only horse you know that’s really trying.
According to the global traveller’s bible Lonely Planet tipping is “common but by no means obligatory” in Australia.
So why do bills always come in a little black folder at the end of a meal like we’re all in the Bourne Identity? Or the change at the bar that’s put on a plate instead of in your hand just because an unusually handsome bartender cracked you a beer?
That’s not a transaction, that’s a dare: If you touch those coins you’re tighter than a wine stopper — and let’s not get started about corkage.
Even if you pay by card these days even the machine is in on it. “TIP?” the screen quizzes you before you can punch in your PIN number … It seems a bit rich when you’ve just spent an hour stopping all stations at the local sushi train.
Unlike the appalling American system where wait staff are paid a miserable few bucks an hour and depend on tips to actually make a decent living, here the minimum wage is about $17 an hour and usually much more — as it should be.
So why do we feel obliged to heap an extra 10 per cent on top of that just for walking out the door?
Don’t get me wrong. I am more than happy to tip for exceptional service. If a waiter goes out of their way to snag you a great table, you tip. If you’re dining with a particularly annoying friend who heaps their order with gluten-free/lactose-intolerant/paleo-approved demands, you tip generously. Hell, I’d pay them just to take her.
But somewhere along the line, tipping has become an expectation, whether you’re noshing at the Duck’s Nuts or grabbing a takeaway coffee and a stale bit of raisin toast.
What finally tipped me over the edge was a recent stay at a hotel on a work trip interstate. I’d ordered a club sandwich, which at $28 was the cheapest item on the menu, and naturally it was delivered to my room along with the bill in a smart leather folder.
“I’ll just need your signature,” the nice young man told me.
It was then that I realised there was a room service delivery fee of SEVEN BUCKS — plus, the receipt asked for a “gratuity” on top of that.
I almost choked — and I hadn’t even taken a bite of the club sandwich yet.
REALLY?!?!? I thought. YOU WANT A TIP FOR RIDING THE ELEVATOR AND KNOCKING ON MY DOOR?!?!?
Still, I capitulated. There’s a limit to how outraged you can be when you’re wearing a bathrobe.
Maybe I’m a miser but the whole thing just leaves a bad taste in my mouth — unlike the club sandwich, which was, as it turned out, rather tasty. ThankyouverymuchChannelTen.
But, as I said, that’s just my two cents. You can keep the change.
