To Outwit a Brit

1986

It is a truth universally acknowledged among waiters that Brits and Aussies don’t tip. In most instances it isn’t deliberate: Gratuity is included on checks in England and Australia.

“Shit,” I say to Richly, “I’ve got four Brits on table 31 and four Aussies on table 38. That’s half my fucking station.”

Richly who champions the self-reliant waiter says, “Okay, we’re not allowed to write, “Service not Included,” on checks, so you need to figure something out,” and she’s off.

Young tourists dusty with travel, the Aussies have been sight-seeing all day and are glad to have found a friendly, inexpensive restaurant.

The Brits said their “mates” had eaten here a year ago and highly recommended it.

When the Brits are half-way through their meal, I check in.

“How is everything?” I ask. They say something about my Uncle Bob, which I assume means they’re enjoying themselves. I lean in, “I was wondering if you’d assist me with something.”

“Sure,” says the host, an appealingly scraggy bloke.

“I have a table of Aussies over there,” I discreetly point. “What’s the tipping policy in the UK? I don’t think they’re aware that the tip is not included. Should I tell them that the average gratuity is 18 to 20 percent of the check? Or should I say nothing and take my chances?”

“Well now, if that’s the case, maybe you should say something,” says the bloke.

“Thanks,” I say, and a few moments later I’m addressing the Aussies, “How is everything?”

A chorus of twangy, “Awesomes.”

““I was wondering if you’d help me,” I say, leaning in like it’s a special secret.

“Sure,” says the table, also leaning in, eager to hear my special secret.

“I have a table of Brits over there,” I discreetly point. “What’s the tipping policy in the UK? I don’t think they’re aware that the tip is not included. Should I tell them that the average tip is 18 to 20 percent of the check? Or should I say nothing and take my chances?”

“Brits are notorious for not tipping, mate,” the brawniest of the bunch says, “You should say something. I’ll go over and have a word with them, if you like.”

“No,” I say, “that won’t be necessary.”

Both tables finish around the same time.

Both tables are delighted that they could be of help to their friendly American waiter.

Both tables leave 20%.

He is by Far the Greatest Star

1987

I’m in station one, the busiest. One of the side effects of not taking reservations is uncertainty; no idea how busy we’ll be. Two tables have just sat, so maybe I’ll make a few bucks. Rent’s due. My tables are looking at the menu, settling in. I have time. I light a cigarette. Miss Andrea, the new general manager, calls me over to the host stand. She’s holding the telephone receiver at arm’s length.

“Did you wait on a Tommy Sydney last night?”

“Yes.”

“His personal assistant wants to talk to you.” She hands me the receiver.

“This is Ted, how may I help–”

“I’m calling about Tommy Sydney. You waited on Tommy last night.”

“I did, indeed.”

“He said you served him a dickie mussel.”

“A what?”

“A dickie mussel.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A dickie mussel is a bad mussel. His stomach is doing somersaults.”

“Maybe the somersaults are due to the five kamikazes he drank?”

“No! It was a dickey mussel.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll speak to the chef.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s really all I can do.”

“All you can do? Tommy Sydney is major star on Broadway.”

She isn’t exaggerating. Tommy Sydney is, indeed, a major Broadway star. He’s currently headlining a sugary concoction about a lower-class Brit who suspects he may have royal blood. It’s rumored to be a musical. Tommy Sydney arrived from England with his girlfriend, Deirdre. Deirdre and I are friends. New friends, that is. We met through a mutual friend who dances in the show. Deirdre put her acting career on hold to accompany Tommy Sydney to America to cook him shepherd’s pie and to do his laundry while he kicks up his heels on the Great White Way. On matinee days Tommy Sydney stays in the theater between shows, leaving Deirdre with plenty of free time. I ofttimes collect her, and we wander around New York in the search of adventure. I suppose Tommy Sydney made an appearance last night as a “thank-you” for keeping his girlfriend occupied while he’s busy tantalizing chorus girls.

His assistant drones on, an atomic-fueled gnat…

“Tommy may not be able to go on tonight.”

“Doesn’t he have an understudy?”

“That’s not the issue. He’s a Broadway star and you served him a dickie mussel!”

“Why don’t you bring Tommy in and I’ll make sure he’s served a mussel that hasn’t been dickied.”

“He will never go back to your restaurant.”

“Well, then, why don’t you come in and I’ll give you the mussel?”

She huffs with the exasperated air of a personal assistant who thinks she’s as important as her boss, “I can’t. I’m on a special diet,” she says, “I never eat anything with a face.”

I want to tell her that mussels don’t have faces, but instead I say, “My condolences to your boyfriend.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Please offer Tommy Sydney our apologies,” I say, and hang up.

Days after he recovers, Tommy Sydney unceremoniously ousts me from Deidre’s life. But not because of the dickie mussel. I believe I’ve been given the heave-ho, because Tommy Sydney suspects that Deidre may have fallen in love with me.

Oops.