A Tip for Great Service

I've recently noticed a lot of articles arguing that the U.S. should eliminate tipping in restaurants and replace it with service charges or higher prices. While I mostly agree with the premise, I think most of the arguments against tipping are wrong. For instance, one common argument is that tipping does not result in better service because you tip after the meal/service. Well if you really want good service:

Many years ago, an uncle told me about his trips to Las Vegas and how to live like a big shot. He would go sit at the hotel pool and order a drink. When the server brought the drink, he would hand her/him an extra $20 and say, "Make sure that glass is never empty." You know who got great service? My uncle.

In my youth, I spent one summer working at a convention center setting up rooms/stages/banquet halls/dance floors for various meetings, receptions and conventions. Despite the manual labor, most of the time we sat around in the big easy executive chairs while smoking and running away to hide when the bosses came around. One week, a large appliance convention rolled into town. We met the head guy for the convention, and he pointed out how he wanted the room set-up.

Just as I started to pretend we had another room to go set up, he pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and handed $20 each to my co-worker and myself. "I trust you'll be around," he said.

You know who got great service? That appliance convention.

We pretty much stayed by that guy's side all week and even helped unload two trucks full of dishwashers, washers and dryers, and stoves. By the end of the convention, we had pulled in an extra $100 each in tips which was $100 more in tips than I made all summer. (At this time I'd like to apologize to the family reunion that didn't have enough chairs that week. Seems like we were too busy with the appliance convention to help you out.)

As many long-time readers may recall, St. Pauli Girl and I owned a restaurant for six years. One day I studied our liquor invoices and wondered why we had ordered a bottle of Glenlivet 18 year old Scotch as we already had plenty including the 12 year old Glenlivet. I asked our bartender who said, "Oh yeah, someone called and requested it. Said he would come here more often if we had it. Don't worry, you're going to love this guy."

Later that night, this man (we'll call him Felix), came in with a rather loud, rowdy party of six. When they got to the table, he handed the hostess $20 then went to the bar, ordered a Glenlivet (18 year old) and tipped the bartender $20. You know who got great service? Felix and everyone he ever came in with.

Felix came in almost weekly always with four to eight people. When he walked in the door, the entire front of house staff would practically mob him to say hello, hug him and hopefully get a little cash. Felix knew everyone's name and anyone new on the staff made it a point to stop by his table and introduce himself/herself.

Felix happened to be a very picky eater. In fact, Felix didn't really order from the menu. He ordered one of our pasta dishes with sauce we used on another dish and "absolutely no cheese! If cheese is anywhere on the table, I'll go crazy and never come in here again."

You know who gets to special order their own entrees that aren't on the menu? Felix and anyone else who throws out cash like rice at a wedding.

I never really came to love Felix as our bartender had suggested I would. Probably because he didn't tip me although one of his friends did buy my Guinness necktie from me for $50. But he always made the place more lively, and the staff loved him.

So even if the U.S. does totally get rid of tipping someday, we'll never truly really get rid of tipping because some people just like living large. And it's no different than politics. You know who gets great service from an elected official? The people that gave the politician a lot of money before the politician won the election.

That Time I Almost Met Evel Kneivel

Years ago (on December 31, 1998 to be exact) I landed at DFW (Dallas-Fort Worth Texas) airport just as a snow storm began picking up steam. I had a two hour wait for my next flight and hoped/prayed that the heavy stuff wouldn't come down for a bit so I could get home. Four hours later, my flight was finally cancelled.

I went to the gate agent desk to check my alternatives. The agent told me he could rebook me on the next flight which left at 8:30 or he could put me in a hotel for the night. Then he said, "Aw, this ain't too bad. I'm sure the later flights will be getting out. Besides, traffic getting to the hotel will be worse than what we got here."

Who else better to trust than a gate agent who is at the airport every day and surely knows airport operations better than anyone? I opted to get rebooked on the 8:30 flight.

"Good choice," he said. "That's what I would do."

Three hours later that flight was canceled and every hotel room in Dallas and Fort Worth were completely filled up. I would get to ring in the new year in the DFW airport. And it would be the last time I ever trusted a gate agent.

What else to do but find the bar which luckily stayed open late to accommodate all of the trapped passengers? I managed to score a barstool next to a fidgety young fellow who would probably die if he went fifteen seconds without some sort of human interaction. He talked to the bartender like they were old pals; he talked to people on the other side of the bar, and he talked to the woman next to him. I did my best to pretend I was deaf. But when the woman sitting next to him finally got tired of it and just left, he turned to me.

"Can you believe that?" he asked.

I produced a faint smile and shook my head.

But it was no use; he had me trapped, as I had no place to run to. I don't remember much of what we (he) talked about, but I'm sure it was the usual background info you might give someone next to you on a plane and how we still couldn't believe that woman just up and left.

At some point, he started flipping through his little black book (remember, this was the 'nineties).

"Hey check this out," he said pointing to a number. "That's Evel Kneivel's number."

"Really."

"You don't believe me? Let's call him. I'll call him right now." He reached for his cell phone.

"No, I believe you." I sort of did because if he were just trying to impress me, surely he could have thought up the name of someone a little more relevant at the time. Evel Kneivel hadn't been in the news for years. In fact, I thought he was dead.

"He's a real down to earth guy. I mean, you think a guy like that would have an assistant answer his phone, but he answers it himself."

"Okay."

"Man, you still don't believe me. I'm calling him. Right now." He started punching at numbers.

"No, don't do that," I insisted. "Poor guy can probably barely walk to the phone with all those broken bones."

"Aw, he never complains about that at all. The man's a prince." He listened to the phone for a second then handed it to me. "Next voice you hear will be Evel's."

I tried to push it away but then reconsidered. Evel--if it really was him--would be upset if he hobbled all the way to the phone and no one was there. I listened, wondering what I might say. "Hey Evel, how's it hanging? Big fan here." Or "Man, I've seen you crash and burn a bunch of times!"? Or maybe "Got any new jumps in the works?"

I held my breath as the phone rang. "He's not home," I said, handing back the phone after eight or nine rings.

"Yeah, and darn it, I don't have his cell number. He likes to have some privacy, you know." He put his phone away. "Shame, you would have really liked him."

A short time later, he excused himself to the restroom. I enjoyed my newfound tranquility so much that it took me awhile to realize he never returned.

The bartender approached me with a suspicious stare. "Hey, where's your buddy?"

"My . . . buddy? I don't know him. Just met him tonight. Jabbermouth."

"Yeah, well he walked his tab."

"Really? Aw man, that stinks." I went over the top, milking it up in case he tried to stick me with the guy's tab. "Scumbag. Jerk. You can't trust anyone these days."

The bartender shrugged and lightened up a bit.

"You know," I said, "maybe he's getting Evel Kneivel to wire him some money."

The bartender gave me a blank stare. I paid my check and left an extra big tip.

It's a good thing Evel didn't answer his phone; he probably would have pretended like he didn't know that guy either.

Scenes from a Bar/Lobby

We recently had a quick weekend getaway a few hours from here. After checking into the hotel, we took the elevator to our floor where we were greeted by about 50 kids roaming the hallway. If you've ever tried a weekend getaway in the last 15 years, you've probably had a similar experience. Apparently, hotels have colluded with youth sports leagues to convince parents to spend money traveling to out of town football/basketball/hockey/kung fu/archery/chess/full contact crochet tournaments. And apparently, especially this weekend in particular, the front desk clerk is the babysitter.

Later that night, we came back from dinner to discover kids running around in football uniforms. This happened in late January when every league is done except for the NFL. But of course this is Texas. Anyhow, we went to our floor where kids were rolling their football helmets down the hallway in some sort of race. We decided to go to the hotel bar.

Now the bar of this hotel had what they call on HGTV, an open floor plan. In actuality, it was just a section of the lobby with some tables and chairs. In the morning, it's a breafast room, at night they open up a locked liquor cabinet behind the breakfast bar, and it's suddenly Moe's Tavern.

St. Pauli Girl sat at a table while I approached the bar where three women in their early 20's sat. One of them looked at me and said, “Hi, how's it going?” That caught me off guard because usually the next question coming from someone like that to me is, “and would you like to supersize that?” But then I recognized her as the front desk clerk who had checked me in earlier. I guessed she had just gotten off work and was having drinks with friends.

I got our drinks and went back to the table where St. Pauli Girl sat. Our adult bar time ended quickly as hordes of twelve year old football players ran screaming through the bar/lobby. We also noticed that there were no parents around. I could only guess that they had taken their coolers of beer to the hotel room and told the kids to go play in the bar.

A short time later, an older shaggy looking gentleman wandered through the bar and complained to the front desk clerk that the ATM she had recommended charged him three dollars. He then pulled out his cellphone and started yelling to someone who I'm guessing had to be named “Cooter.” He explained to Cooter that he was going honking tonking that night and that he had come to town to get a “kick-ass sound system installed in my truck. Now I'll be able to watch porn while I drive!”

I also noticed that the front desk clerk kept walking back and forth in front of us. Being college educated, I also realized this happened everytime the phone rang at the front desk. She was still working: checking people in, answering the phone and hanging out with friends in the bar! The genius hotel owner must have decided to only have telephones with cords so the clerk would never leave the front desk. He forgot about the part where $7.25 an hour, 20 year old front desk clerks just don't care.

We finally saw a parent come into the bar. We hoped she would round up all the kids and send them back to their rooms. No, she went to the bar and ordered coffee for all the kids. Then she went back to her room while the kids loaded sugar into their coffee. Our only hope at this point would have been a mass exorcism.

Then another kid dressed only in gym shorts came into the bar. I thought maybe he had come from the pool but I realized the hotel didn't have an indoor pool; he just thought that's the way to go out in public in January no less.

We decided not to have another drink. I said to St. Pauli Girl, “I didn't see a sign but I think the name of this bar is 'Pedophile's Dream.'”

Amazingly, we weren't kept awake all night by rowdy kids in the halls. But then again I guess that's because they were all down in the bar.

Merrily Shopping

I’ve discovered I like grocery shopping. To be more exact, I like grocery shopping in stores that have bars and allow you to carry your drink around while you shop. I am not making this up. And to think I once thought it was stupid that shopping carts contained cup holders.

St. Pauli Girl and I recently went into the big city to do some grocery shopping at a store that I’ll call Whole Lotta Grocery Shopping and Tavern. Turns out that they have a real bar in their wine and beer section. After an hour of exhausting grocery shopping, we parked our cart, bellied up to the crowded bar, and ordered a glass of wine. And a cheese sampler. And then another glass of wine.

The grocery store ambience wasn’t great mostly because of the lighting, but the people watching was fun.

Me: Seems like everyone here is having a really good time.

St. Pauli Girl: Maybe it’s just us.

Me: I’ll drink to that.

The grocery wine bar has a small but nice selection of wine that can be ordered in flights or by the glass, as well as several draft beers. And since the bar really doesn’t need to make a lot of money, the prices and servings are very reasonable. Plus you can get your drink in a plastic cup to carry with you while you are shopping. And for you misers out there, guess what? The credit card slip doesn’t have a tip line! You don’t have to leave a tip, and you can blame it on the store. Or you can do what the guy next to us did: “Well, I’d leave you something, but there’s no line on the credit card slip. [He rummages through his cart.] Oh wait! Here’s a rutabaga for you.”

As we enjoyed our time in the bar, I tried to think how my life might have been different if these stores existed in my younger days:

Me: What are you doing tonight?

Friend: Going to Kroger’s. They’ve got 2 for 1 Coronas.

Me: Forget that! Albertson’s has 99-cent well drinks. Plus they have the best produce.

Friend: You’re right, fresh produce is the ultimate chick magnet. I’ll meet you there.

Although my friends always said the grocery store was one of the best places to meet women, it never worked out for me. Probably because my pick-up lines consisted of something like, “Hey, I see we both got the Salisbury steak. Do you know if you’re supposed to remove that little corner of peach cobbler before you microwave the rest of it?”

Yep, these youngsters have it good. Now you can amble slowly through the store sipping on a cabernet, and when you see a hot girl loading up a take-out container at the salad bar, you can take the opportunity to hook her with something like, “You know, that’s the same bean salad my grandmother used to make, God rest her soul. How ‘bout I buy you a beer over at the bar and give you the recipe?”

Our shopping trip/happy hour finally came to an end. I’ve never had more fun spending $200 on groceries. As we drove home, I said to St. Pauli Girl, “You know, I’ve been thinking we need to make our household chores a little more equitable, take some of the burden off of you. From now on, why don’t you let me do all the grocery shopping?”

Comrades in Arms

An Open Letter from Texas to the State of Tennessee

Dear Tennesseeans:

First, as always, thanks for sending Davy Crockett our way where he died a hero defending the Great Republic and the steady sales of his trademark coonskin caps keeps our economy humming along better than just about any other state right now. At least that’s what our governor tells us.

In an earlier blog, I wrote that it was illegal to carry firearms into Texas establishments that serve food and alcohol. An alert reader set me straight: it is only illegal to carry unlicensed firearms into said establishments. That is much to my relief: for a minute there I thought Tennessee was more progressive on guns than Texas.

Given its landmark legislation permitting guns in restaurants and bars, I’d like to formally welcome Tennessee to the future as we enjoy it in the Great Republic. Here in the 19th century you can relive the golden saloon years when men were men and women would ask “Is that a 44 magnum in your pocket?” and mean it.

I salute the forward-thinking Volunteer State for solving a plague that still grips the rest of the nation: the fear of being shot every time you go out to eat. Tennessee, you will soon feel an economic boon in your state because:

1. Many gun owners refused to eat out without their guns
2. Many people refused to eat out for fear of being badly shot in restaurants by unlicensed gun owners

Now the citizens of Tennessee can relax in their favorite restaurant knowing that if the kid at the next table spills his Dr Pepper, plenty of patrons packing heat are there to quell the disturbance. Screaming babies will never be a problem again.

This is also good news for those looking for comps. When you tell the manager that the soup you licked clean from the bowl was actually cold, he’d better be forthcoming with a freebie or he’ll have to talk to your pardners, Smith and Wesson. No more waiting in long lines at the bar either--a shot at the chandelier will grab the bartender’s attention.

It’s also great to see the return of the statesman to politics:

"I ask that you ... give the law-biting citizens of this state a right to protect themselves," said Republican House sponsor Curry Todd of Collierville.

First, “Curry Todd” is a great name that sounds straight out of Abilene. Second, “Law-biting citizens” works on so many levels. It’s possible Todd was just trying on a Texas drawl by shortening “law abiding” to “law ‘biding” and he just got misquoted. But the idea of citizens carrying handguns certainly has a “law-biting” feel to it, doesn’t it? We may never know what he truly said, but I nominate “law-biting citizens” for a marble inscription at the state capitol.

Yes, thank God Tenneseeans and Texans have seen the light. It’s high time we stop discriminating against the good folks who wish to bear arms. Carrying a gun should not be illegal. Shooting at people for no good reason should be illegal. Shooting at people who are shooting at you should not be illegal. And doing it in a restaurant or bar should make no difference. And let’s face it, a basket of chips and a round of margaritas just makes it more fun.



Your Comrades in Arms,

The Great Republic

P.S. Can we interest you in some textbooks?