He had this “I-can’t-believe-my-lot-in-life-is-driving-a-bus” expression on his face. The sentiment seeped into his posture, and into his surly one-word responses to my instructions. He maintained that presence the entire day, up till the moment I signed his parents, indicating services rendered, and that he completed his duties.

After I shook his hand, he paused, then said, “Handshakes and thank you’s are nice, but that’s not why I do this job.”
I smiled and blinked, in that confused way we do when we don’t understand someone and hope they’ll go away if we stay cheerful and silent. He placed the form I just signed back in front of me, and pointed out the highlighted section about “gratuities not being included in the fee.” And he repeated himself:

“Handshakes and thanks you’s are nice, but that’s not why I do this job.”

Ah. He was, very not so subtly, asking for a tip.

I looked to my boss, Charlie. He had the very same smile plastered to his face. “I need you to tell me exactly what you need.” He blinked repeatedly.

Allan gestured to the paper. “Would you go to a restaurant, eat, and just pay the bill? Is that how you treat your waiters?”

Charlie explained to him, as nicely as he could muster, that we didn’t tip the drivers, and this was something he was going to have to work out with his company. Allan snatched his papers and stalked off, calling in heavenly reinforcement with a “God bless,” reminding us not tipping bus drivers wasn’t the Christian thing to do, before he disappeared out the door. I’ve never seen him since.

Despite knowing Allan was a troubled man working on his own issues, the whole experience left me feeling dirty. Well, not dirty exactly, but worse — cheap. I lived and worked in this community for a few months and had completely removed myself from the service industry for the first time in more than a decade. I surrounded myself with a constant stream of people whom I could tell, based on how they conducted themselves, saw these men and women in the service industry as beneath them. Did that influence or contact high or whatever you want to call it put me out of touch with my own humility?

Humility — how you view your importance to this world — is the quality I value above all virtues and attributes. It’s difficult to teach, and more difficult to fake, as it shapes your every interaction with others. At the same time it’s a quality closely tied to one’s resiliency; it toughens you up to do the hard work when your other resources: money, time, intelligence are scarce. And precisely because I value my humility so greatly, it strikes a nerve when Allan’s response challenges it.

Maybe Allan’s correct, and it’s proper etiquette to tip these drivers; just because we set the precedent of not doing it doesn’t mean we were right in the past. Navigating the rules and ethics of tipping is a treacherous path, though — put out a tip jar in front where something gets sold and money changes hands and we ask, “Oh, am I supposed to tip?”

Everyone knows they should tip their servers, though percentage points are often points of contention. Some tip bartenders extra generously, and others tip them the same way they tip strippers: a dollar per round, more depending on the square inch of cleavage shown. What about the baristas at our coffee shops? The furniture movers? Cab drivers and delivery boys? Sushi chefs? Camp counselors? Bell  hops and door men? Who do we tip and how much?

It sounds like an over analysis, but I don’t see it that way, because I am, and everything I achieve is, a byproduct of this system. In eleven years, I’ve made my living on both the overwhelming generosity and bitter stinginess of others. Every person whose food I served or dish I cleared, has microscopically yet very definitely had a hand in shaping who I am, and I am blessed. I am grateful. Not because of some glamorous lifestyle, or because I have so many great things, or because of any significant achievement: I am blessed to be at a station in life where I can make those things happen for me, if I work for it. Because of those people who tipped, I’m in position to earn it.

That’s the idea behind tipping, isn’t it? That no one’s entitled to it, no matter your life’s station or  your job title. No one’s entitled to the extra, even if you work in a profession where “a minimum 18 percent gratuity is charged for parties of 6 or more” or if it’s the kind of place where you put out a tip jar. We are not entitled to the tip. The same way we’re not entitled to the promotion because we’ve been with the company for x number of years, or the paying gig because we interned for three months and got really good at fetching coffee. We’re not entitled to any of it.

Everything we want, we must earn.

No related posts.

He took a drag. Stared out across Culver City rooftops. “Wish someone told me that, when I was in New York. So I kept acting, instead of wasting two years bartending.”

The choices? A modern, fine-dining Japanese restaurant. Or a local, burn-n’-turn Thai spot.

If I’m serving, I want to learn – and I knew since square one there was serious educating to get done at the Japanese restaurant. The sommelier introduced two wines every pre-shift, dishing out bubbles and aroma wheels and a lexicon concerning tannins and notes and complexities of such complexity my notes consisted of a mish-mash of nada. Our bartender didn’t consider himself a sake expert, but that didn’t stop him from selling a $160, 300 ml bottle of sake to a Hollywood financier trying to impress his date. “It’s not what you know, it’s how you sell it,” he said, and proceeded to break it down.

Then there were the countless Japanese dishes, beyond Benihana-hibachi, onion-ring-volcano gambits and a sushi selection found in most Ralph supermarkets, next to the frozen Tilapia filets and Long John Silver fish sticks. Management wanted the servers to educate themselves. Any question – they tried to answer; if they couldn’t, they directed you to a better resource. Not one condescending eye cast for a silly question. If you wanted an education on food and drink, this was the spot.

It was an experience replicated to exactly the zero degree at the Thai restaurant, where the only thing management frowned upon more than idleness were questions. Not that there wasn’t plenty to learn – on the contrary, it was a cuisine of which I knew zippo, with Thai-lime-chili sauces and fresh cilantro and cucumber slice garnishes. After years of working in kitchens staffed by Chinese, I was suddenly surrounded by the by the buzz of Thai and Spanish. Even the menu selection – Thai dishes complimented with fried rices, Chow Mein noodles, Korea BBQ, and a sushi bar – was reminiscent of a menu I discussed about replicating in the past, but never seen well executed.

There was plenty to learn, except it was done on your own, with an observant eye and attention to detail. Ask too many questions, and you were regarded with suspicion rather than delight; who learned well under those conditions?

Teddy nailed it though – I didn’t come to learn about the restaurant business. I came to write, to work in the entertainment business; which job catered to that End Game? I left an hour early to get to the Japanese restaurant, followed by a ten minute skateboard ride just to get through the doors. If I worked a double, I’d have nothing to do other than aimlessly wander the 3^rd Street Promenade with weekend European tourists and upper-middle class America during my break.

I commuted to the Thai spot in four minutes – by skateboard; home in the same amount of time it took most people to dig out their car keys. There was no “studying” either, no reviewing the wines and dishes I learned that day. I’d make a better income at the Japanese restaurant – cover more of my overhead, sustain my spot in this game – but that wasn’t why I was here, either. I didn’t move to Los Angeles to cover overhead, to play it safe and eke out a living, until I went broke half-heartedly chasing a dream. I came to write, to carve my niche out of the entertainment sphere, and the Thai restaurant gave me a stronger foothold to do just that.

I called my father for his input, after my talk with Teddy. I told my father what he said.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “That’s the only way you should look at this situation. Juggle both jobs at first, to make sure you like this new restaurant. As soon as you know you want to stay, drop the old job.”

I told him I knew that was the play, but I felt… guilt. There was loyalty to the Japanese restaurant, because they hired me first, and had been good to me. I felt I owed it to the management to stick with them, instead of dropping them like a bad habit the instant something better came–

My father cut me off right there. “That’s the last thing that should cross your mind,” he scolded. “This is the restaurant business. People leave – it’s the highest turnover rate of any industry. Don’t  worry about the restaurant or your managers; they don’t care about you. Right now, you’re alone in Los Angeles. No one’s going to help you if something goes wrong, so the only person you should be thinking about is yourself.”

Of course, he was right. He and Teddy were both right – which is why I left.

But I struggle with the idea, to only think of myself. The mentality infects this city – after only a month, already I see and feel its effects. It’d be so simple to buy into it, to bury the moral compass, but I can’t, not without a fight. There are consequences of thinking only about oneself, or thinking solely about money, or about what the benefits one reaps for xyz action, and they are ugly. It taints everything and everyone it comes in contact with, a reverse-Midas’ touch.

On the other hand, I’ve seen what happens when you stop caring solely for yourself, or your bottom line. When you take two seconds to stop kissing ass or climbing the corporate ladder. When you care more about doing the right thing, or getting it done right, instead of recognition or credit… and it’s a whole other world.

It’s also much harder. As is any endeavor that’s worth the effort.

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1. How Much to Save Before Moving to Los Angeles
2. One Month In – Part Two
3. Wait

Don’t remember who said it, but there’s something about the quote, paraphrased below, that sticks like beach tar to fleshy foot:

“Self deception is such an insidious thing; not only are you lying to yourself, but then the lie covers its own tracks, so you never realize it existed to begin with.”

The words ring in my ears, like the shrill WHIRL WHIRL of a distant police car, or the smoke alarm cutting through a dream, as I decide between the Plunge or a Toe in the Water.

Reason tells me the latter. Lay the foundation, build from the bottom, then race to the top. It is a sensible route: the money holding me over won’t last for long. I need time to establish myself in this city and to produce worthy material, and time costs money.

Yet there’s this gut check, some inner-level of “shit ain’t right” noxious-fog clouding my emotions I must resolve before making my decision:

Am I returning to the service industry because it’s the best method to reach my career goal of becoming a screen writer? Is it really the best thing I could possibly do? Or am I terrified; still that scared little boy with a bowl cut and sweaters two sizes two big, who retreats to the familiar?

Am I returning to restaurant work because it’s all I know? Because I’m a Linus and it’s the security blanket I’ll drag around behind me for decades to come?

At times of personal uncertainty, I remind myself to stick with The Plan. The Plan was formulated at a secure, logically-sound time, before Daniel found himself cast in the lion’s den. Like the professional golfer, disciplined enough to stick with his swing, regardless of how poorly he’s playing in a match. He knows better than to stray from the body mechanics he spent years developing.

Or a savvy investor, who refuses to budge from his investment strategy, and holds his position while all the Chicken Little’s of his world (his clients, the media, his colleagues) scurry around with heads lopped off, selling in a panic because of a sudden downturn.

But… did my self-deception stretch even as far back as when I formulated The Plan? Did I already realize how far I’d find myself outside of my comfort zone, and justify it months ago?

Did my lies already cover their tracks months and months ago?

Maybe they did.

I want to berate myself for my weaknesses, for my hesitation while my mind screams at me to act. But time’s up. I’m here now, and there’s no one around to seal shut the lions’ mouths. The luxury of second-guesses, or armchair quarterbacking the next step, goes to the day dreamers who speculate the journey. They have the good fortune ribbing you on a mistake, or jiving at a cocktail party about “how I would have done it.”

If I’m wallowing in my own self-deception at this particular crossroad, then let it be. I’m only hurting myself. I’m the one who has to work harder, produce more, and put myself outside of my comfort zone in other arenas to compensate for my weakness.

I can live with that.

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2. Sidebar: Final Thoughts
3. Sidebar: Breaking Falls

At the end of our serving shift, I told the other server our tips were a dollar over, and I wanted her to have it. She tried shrugging it off. She continued pushing the vacuum cleaner over the tan carpet. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

I insisted. I told her I left it in my pocket and almost forgot it. If she didn’t take it, the guilt would eat me.

She thought about it for a millisecond. “Okay. I’ll take it. I’m poor,” she said with a short laugh, then, just as quickly, “just kidding,” as she shoved the money into her hip pocket.

For Karen, the Lobster Meat Summer Roll was love at first sight – filled with delicately cooked lobster meat, fresh spring mix, mangoes and strawberries. The sushi chefs wrapped them in rice paper, then drizzled a tangy Thai citrus sauce on top, and perched it upright in a tantalizing balancing act. “Oh, that looks good,” Karen said.

So good, in fact, that when she saw Tracy carry an unfinished piece back into the kitchen, her eyes grew to size of saucers, lustful, in hope and anticipation. “Oh,” she said softly. She quickly followed Tracy in. She asked, “Are they going to take that home?”

“Uh, no,” Tracy said.

“Good,” and with one swift bite, it was gone.

Wei-Yi breathed in figures and numbers, and spat out the results in different languages. She couldn’t pick up how to be a good server, however. She didn’t last long. Yet she forced the restaurant to limit the post-shift meal (and its 50 percent discount) to one item.

“How come you’re ordering so much?” Alan asked, watching her ring in her and her boyfriend’s dinner, as well as her lunch for tomorrow, into the computer.

“Well, it’s 50 percent off. Why wouldn’t I order a lot?” she said.

Kathleen, who eventually replaced Wei-Yi, had a similar mentality. She shared the same cluelessness about restaurant work, too (though she remained blissfully free of the intelligence.) Once, she forgot to remind our Head Chef to keep mushrooms out of the Sautéed Noodles. The dish came out incorrectly, and that the fault lied even remotely upon her never crossed her mind. The notion she should offer to pay for the wasted dish – beyond her grasp.

Instead, she volunteered to eat it.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d ask!” she replied when the owner asked her if she wanted it. “I love noodles!”

And you’ll find the sushi chef, Alan, constantly rummaging through the fridge, a stray Greyhound looking for its next free meal. The wiry 26-year-old – who’s first in-line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner – knows how to put the food away. Just as long as he doesn’t have to buy it.

Before the staff dinner, he came into the kitchen, and picked out a yellow banana – ones used for tempura dessert. “It looks like it’s going bad,” he said.

Frank sat atop an empty soy sauce container. He didn’t even look up from his newspaper. “So just eat it,” he’d replied, but Alan’s didn’t hear, already half-way through the banana.

The word “free” in “The Free World” has taken on a new meaning. “Free” has infected our consciousness, and today we’re a culture scrambling for handouts: checking Craigslist for rummage “sales,” or visiting BJ’s for free samples. Fans at a sports event will dive over three seat rows to get an extra-large t-shirt they’ll never wear, shot from an absurd cannon-contraption, simply because, besides their dignity, there’s nothing to lose.

Free downloads.

Free money.

Low shirt, short dress, and a seductive glance equals free drinks.

Free morsels on toothpicks – little pieces of Bourbon chicken you take not because you’re hungry but because they’re waving it in your face and jeez, it’d just be rude to refuse.

No sex! – but here are your free condoms, just in case.

Free HIV tests.

Free month supply of Extenz – “you just pay for the stamp!”

Free magnets, pens, pencils. Free meals, free lunch, free time.

Free Willy. Free mugs. Free ringtones, wallpapers, and Proactive Refining Mask solutions.

In this world dominated by “free,” it’s rare to find someone like Martin, who looks down upon the notion of handouts or charity. It’s rare to find someone who refuses “free.” On one slow Saturday evening, Frank planned on leaving work early to have dinner at a new restaurant down the street.

“Would you like to come?” he asked Martin.

“Uh, no,” Martin replied with a snicker.

Frank ignored it, as he did whenever he already made up his mind. Ten minutes later, Martin changed out of his uniform, and they put on their coats. “Can we do separate checks?” Martin asked, as they stepped out of the doors.

Before he left for the city one weekend, he ordered two Jack and Cokes for himself, and a martini for his friend. I told him it was on the house. He left a $20 bill on the bar anyway, went outside, and waited in the car that was warming up in the parking lot.

I followed him out, and threw the bill through the window, into his lap.

Two minutes later, he came back in and slapped it on the black stone counter. He gave me a serious look. “Ming, don’t ever take anything for free,” he warned. He didn’t elaborate. Martin rarely did. That was his style: put out a nugget of wisdom, and see who picked up on it.

Then he was gone.

It was this attitude, this nose-in-the-air defiance to the Free Movement, that earned him the respect of others. It’s why I respected him. Because a person who never takes is a person who does not need.

And a person who doesn’t need – wouldn’t you call that being “free?”

Martin wasn’t – isn’t, perfect. Far from it. He is still guilty of his own childish behaviors, susceptible to the whims and fancies of a 7-year-old child. Yesterday he tells you he’s getting married and moving to Indonesia. Tomorrow he’s living in Kentucky, working for another restaurant. Anytime someone tried to give him money, he made an unnecessary production of the affair, so that people had no choice but to recognize his principles. Kayleigh once tried giving him $5, for the coffees he bought her, but he refused the money. They argued for a few minutes, until Martin finally took the $5 bill, and threw it into the trash. Then he walked upstairs, with Kayleigh shouting at his back, “I’m not taking it back! It’s staying in the garbage can!”

“Fine,” Martin said.

Minutes later, Big Chef came running up the stairs, holding the $5 bill. “Money, money, money! Honey, your money!” Kayleigh laughed, and half-exasperated, half-relieved she didn’t just throw out good money, said, “Yes, Honey, my money.” She took the bill and put it into her apron. Martin smirked from the corner of the bar.

Someone once referred to him as a martyr, which is more accurate than not. I prefer thinking of him as a person with honor, though. A person with pride. He is someone who takes nothing for granted, here, in the Land of the Free. He knows there are notions and values that no one can just give away, with, say, two proofs of purchase and the cost of shipping and handling.

No. There are still some things you simply must earn.

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3. Service

Serving was how he passed the time in high school and college. He did well because his memory was sharp, he was quick with figures and quick with his hands. But his belief in delivering quality work with quality service kept him in this industry that turns naïve idealists into cold, calculating machines. Which was easy enough in good times, but during the bad times, you see how quickly those ideals get compromised.

“You don’t know how lucky you are. You can go out to dinner, spend $100 before tip, and it’s not a big deal. You can’t appreciate it.” There was truth to his words. Looking back, by the time the server cleared the dessert plate, the whole event was another memory. It was a miniscule detail the moment it was over, like brushing your teeth or putting on a clean t-shirt in the morning. “But for some people it’s a very big deal, and you have to treat it that way.”

“What if this is a family who can only afford to eat out once a month?” he asked.  A family of six; the father works six days a week while the mother stays home to take care of the kids. After the parents look at their budget, after deducting the costs of rent, utilities, groceries, putting money into the college savings and the account that looks more like a bad joke than a retirement fund, they figure, okay, we can afford to take everyone out to dinner once a month.

Their meal won’t be special to you. The parents won’t order wine or cocktails. The whole table will order water with lemons because it’s free. They’ll ignore your carefully crafted specials pitch, and opt for four of the more inexpensive entrees, and they’ll ask for a few sharing plates. They skip the appetizer, and the dessert.

Their check won’t be special, and the accompanying tip even less-so. Other than the 35 seconds spent grumbling over their meager contribution to your bottom-line, you won’t remember these guests in any way.

“To them, though, that meal is special, so you have to treat their experience the way they might see it. That’s how you look at your job.”

“What if you ruined this meal for them?” Frank continued. “All month, they look forward to the one night they get to go out, and do something special for the family. And you ruin it with your attitude, because they tipped you 4% percent less than you think you deserved.”

This responsibility isn’t a burden many servers carry on their shoulders. More often than not, they care little about the quality of food and even less about the quality of service. Their primary concern, at the end of their shift, is escaping with more money in their pocket than they came in with.

“That’s why you have to be different,” he said. “You have to care more. You have to know serving is not about you.”

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1. Tipping (Isn’t a City in China)
2. Start With Heart

He waited.

I took off the three tall soda glasses, and fit them snugly into one hand. My other hand reached for the soda gun. My thumb fired off two “D’s” and one “P.” Besides the fizzle and pop of carbonation striking soda mix, it was quiet.

He waited.

I handed my patrons their respective refills. When I returned to the bar, I put him out of his misery.

What Martin? I asked him.

“Why you put the plate down like that?” he nodded to the plate of sushi I gave to my guest moments ago. The man – tall, white, with a thick head of black hair – wasn’t cognizant of any problems with the presentation. He already devoured a piece of tuna, and poised pink salmon in his finger tips, glistening from dab of soy sauce.

He continued. “You got to put the plate down the right way.” He stared at me expectantly, as if that sentence alone should clarify his meaning, and any second now, the realization of my committed sin would strike me.

Instead, I stared back at him. I waited for more details. He waited for me to ask for them. He needed the acknowledgement of superior knowledge; I saw it in his posture, that lanky slouch, hip cockeyed and slightly jutted. I saw it in his half-hidden smirk, highlighted by his brown designer glasses and the gentle red highlights in his hair.

I needed not to give him the satisfaction. It was no secret he knew a great deal more about thecuisine than myself. Still, I’d rather stew in my own ignorance than admit defeat, feeding his ego, swelling his pride.

Instead, I spent the following weeks studying the plating of the sushi chefs, especially those who created the more elaborate designs. Picking out the shape and size of their plate was like throwing up a new canvas or striking “Ctrl+N.” They started with clean and white porcelain, and from there, the design was left up to their imaginations. I stared at the pictures they painted, and the landscapes they built, yet I still wasn’t presenting the plate in the correct orientation 100 percent of the time. Finally Danny yelled at me, from behind the sushi bar.

“Look at the ginger-wasabi,” he scolded. “Wasabi should be at their right hand, right? So when they want to take some with their chopstick, very close. Don’t have to go like this,” he demonstrated, making a great show of reaching over an imaginary assortment of fish piled two feet in the air to get to the condiments.

The ginger and wasabi was the North Star of the plating. It was a minor detail at best, but being mindful of the minor details is what people prided themselves on – including Martin.

“Look at this glass,” he said to me once, after we just opened one morning. He picked up the one I just finished wiping down and returned to the shelf. It had two or three water spots, but it was a soda glass; customers would suck carbonation and syrup from the glass, not sip Dom Perignon. It’s fine, I told him. It’s good enough.

“No Chris, not good enough. We keep a certain standard here, okay? You know, all the restaurants in the City, they fire you for this.” He pointed out the door to emphasize his point. “My Godfather would never allow this in his restaurant, so that’s what we have to do.”

Martin held his level of utility as a waiter to the same standards of his cleanliness and knowledge. His pride kept him from accepting help; ask him if he needs a hand while he piles five plates on his arms, and he’ll ignore you. He won’t even respond, other than maybe a short derisive laugh as he brushes past you. When the dinner rush begins and guests are seated, he’ll rush over to get their drink order before you take out your apron and open a fresh page in the notebook.

Then at the end of the night, he’ll beckon you over to the computer. “Look,” he’ll say. He’ll bring up his list of tables for the evening. Two presses on the screen, and it switches to your respective list – which is much shorter. “You’re not working hard enough.”

It took months, but he grudgingly opened up the more we worked together, until finally he confessed,

“See Chris, I do it all for a reason. I need to know who will say, “Oh, let Martin do it,” and who is willing to work. I need to test people, so I know who I can trust.”

He made it sound like going into battle, and the more I worked with Martin, the more I realized that’s exactly how he saw it. Every interaction: from selling sake to plate presentation and banter, it was all more than just work. It was a direct reflection on him, and he took every aspect seriously. While many would look down on serving – regarding the position below their status – he held it in high regard.

He served quickly, smoothly, regardless of how many nooks and crannies he wedged plates into, to create a full-course balancing act. He presented the wasabi, ginger, and protein appropriately, without pause. He identified who would buy higher-end products, and sold it to them with minimum word count. He studied costs of food and beverage, to maximize profit for the business.

At grade schools and Kumbaya-corporate meetings, they use different euphemisms for this behavior. Flying colors, above and beyond, beyond the call of duty, rising to the challenge – anything you could identify with either flying or being under the influence of psychedelic drugs.

But for Martin, it was the price he paid for his pride. It was the cost of wanting – no, needing – to be the best.

Last December, I was driving in Nashville, Tennessee, and a license plate caught my eye: “Liv2Ryd.” It belonged to the rig of a trucker, carrying who knows what across state lines: beets, potatoes, migrant workers. What I couldn’t tell you about the cargo, however, I could tell you about the driver. This wasn’t a person who called the “Truck Driving School” one late, infomercial-saturated night, half-drunk on a case of Natural Ice. This person didn’t come across their position diving through classified ads, desperately searching for something to pay the bills. They did not hate their job.

This person was born and bred for the road. They loved the smell of asphalt during steamy summers, diner food, and conversation over one-more-coffee. Their cargo always arrived on time, whether they were headed to Las Vegas, Nevada or Podunk, NY. They didn’t believe in global position systems; their maps were etched into their minds, not dictated to them by a British voice from their dashboard. Snow, sleet, and flooding weren’t natural disasters or excuses. They were merely obstacles. If needed, they could drive for 48-hours straight, on nothing but some aspirin and a single shot of whiskey. Not all the time; because it was dangerous, and certainly not good for them.

But that was the price of pride. It was the cost of needing to be the best.

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1. Free