Tipping as an artform - the Playboy bunnies got it right

Now that we've discussed the various forms of tippers, there are several techniques that can be used to get a better tip.

The first, and obviously the best working, is flirtation. Flirting is always welcomed, except by bitter women, but it almost always works. Men and women alike appreciate coyness and over the top interest. Even gay men will tell you, that when their female server flirts with them, the service seems better. Besides, most of the men I see haven't talked to a young 20-something the way that they talk to me for about 15 years, and that means 20+ percent.

Secondly, is appearance: The way we look is a reflection of ourselves and most of the time you want that reflection to be sex. Sex sells and people love a scantily clad cocktailer in fishnets. It doesn't always have to be clothes - or the lack thereof - but the way we're put together. If you come in without make-up and in your ex-boyfriends t-shirt turned inside out, people are not going to like it. I am extremely low maintenance when it comes to going to classes or anywhere else out in public, but when I work, it takes me at least 45 minutes to get ready.

As an addendum to number two, cleavage of course plays a big factor, the more the better. Don't get offended when they look because it means more money for you. Refer to the cleavage scale in my first post.

Thirdly is service. Bad service can be overlooked if you look good and act appropriate. Geriatrics aren't big fans of you crossing your arms and pushing your girls up, but they do appreciate consideration. I always try to make a comment about how the light really is low as they squint at the menu, not that they're so old that they can't handle mood lighting. People don't care that it takes 20 minutes to get a Carlsberg, if you drop off Playboy style.




No matter what, when in doubt unbutton your shirt, let down your hair and pretend your waiting on the best sex partner you've ever had.

Corporate men - my specialty and the best tippers.

It doesn't matter if you wear a toupee or have a tanning mark where your wedding band should be, if you work for PNC and are highly invested in your 401k, we want to wait on you.

After fruitless babying of all sorts of bad tippers, our four-leaf clovers of cocktailing are undoubtedly the rich ones. They're not all corporate, but they do all have a business credit card and they do leave the tips above the 20 percent mark.

If one isn't careful, a cat fight could ensue over the claiming of a table spilling over with 40 and 50 something men with peacoats and comb-overs. Not only do they order real wine (not happy hour) and beers other than the domestic lite special, but they have been known to order food... off of the real dinner menu!

Forget those happy hour wings - how about one order of calamari, shrimp cocktail and an ahi tuna appetizer?


Already, with one round of drinks and three dinner appetizers, the bill is 50 bucks - it only gets better from here.

A little flirting and leaning with your arms crossed over those high stools will get you pretty far. And after a night of one dollar bills, it's nice to get that 20 percent.

Men in that range are also easy to cajole into drinking more. Another Blanton's on the rocks.. oh come on, your mother's not here... soon turns into 5, at $12.00 a piece.

It must feel good to have a 20-something cocktailer flirting with you and pulling her shirt down a little lower, telling to you drink more, when you've ignored your wife of 20-year's fifth phone call to get your ass home.

I don't make the rules, I just play by them, pretty well might I add. It seems indecent, maybe that's why women hold a grudge, because they know we'd do the same thing to their husbands.

We don't discriminate. We're just trying to make a living and for that I'll pull my shirt down any day.

Women leave bad tips - it might be a genetic problem.

The worst tippers are women, specifically old women and those coming up on middle-age. If they work at Saks it's even worse. Typically, women are the nicer sex (apparently), but when it comes to compensation for the 15 midlife crisis cosmos that I've dropped at your table - 20 percent doesn't seem like a possibility.



Things that I've done to get a tip (from women, the list is entirely different for men...obviously):

1. found single guys and coerced them into joining the midlife crisis women
2. had the bartender create diet/sugar free/low sodium drinks after much begging and pleading
3. got them extra mayonnaise (this is a popular one)
4. got them extra napkins
5. got them free stuff after they consumed it and told me that it was too burnt/too salty/too sweet/too fatty/too alcoholic
6. prevented personal items from getting stolen
7. picked up scarves, sweaters, gloves, hats, lipstick, shoes and tampons from the floor

and finally...

8. convinced them that the cheeseburger they're eating really isn't that bad for them, so much protein. I eat them all of the time and I'm 125 lbs.... right... just keep drinking, it makes it seem better.

After bending over backwards, I get a measly $10 on a $100 bill (I'm a journalism major, but I'm still pretty sure that's 10 percent). Sometimes it just doesn't seem worth it, but then every once in a while you get that big tip from a group of ladies celebrating their friend's 50th birthday and you get a little more faith that all women aren't giant bitches.

Besides, I'd rather wait on the mid-life crises, than the 20-30 year-olds. It's like they are out to get you. There is a bitterness requirement for most of them. I'm not sure if it's because I act so happy, or if it's because I get to flirt with every man in the place honestly that they harbor such resentment.

Waiting on tables with those twittering former sorority girls forms visions of spilled mojitos and requests for a house salad with fat-free dressing.

Check please!

Valentine's Day is not for everyone

The night before Valentine's Day was especially wonderful at my place of employment. Not only did we have a valentine's appetizer, entree, dessert and cocktail, which happened to be a raspberry kiss, but even the Friday night before, the dining room was filled with love birds.

The bar was a different story.

You must be a pretty quirky individual to go out the night before Valentine's Day to drown your sorrows in a bar where cocktails are $9.50. As we were winding down after the happy hour rush, two men came in to do just that.

One of the guys is a semi-regular customer and always leaves the bartender a large tip, unfortunately I didn't immediately recognize him as such. That evening, he was decked out in a very high-end light and dark pink striped shirt which complemented his unnaturally tan skin nicely.

His friend was trying to play cupid and as I walked out of the kitchen back into the bar, Cupid immediately nudged his friend and motioned in my direction. I'm thinking, "Oh great, just what I need, as I am trying to.."

"HONEY!" - all the sudden my thoughts were interrupted. No not honey, like a sweet term of endearment, but more like HUUUN-EEEE.

He can't be talking to me. So as I walked by, minding my own business, he grabs my face and firmly plants a kiss on my protesting mouth. Forgive me for not recognizing you, I've only seen you a few times and I was distracted.

Apparently we're best friends and I didn't even realize. With slurred words, Cupid tries to explain his friend, who's name I still don't know, but we'll call Zeus, has been in love with me for months... and I didn't even recognize him, such a shame.

The rest of the evening consisted of him trying to kiss me every chance he got and bellowing "HONEY!!" when I wasn't in his immediate line of vision. My manager soon graced the bar with her presence and was surprised as the rest of us when Zeus asked her for a kiss and then proceeded to take off his shirt to show everyone his new tattoo.

After being groped more times than the last three weeks combined, he asks me to proclaim his love for him and ditch my boyfriend that night so we could go back to his place.

After that I decided to stay in the kitchen.

"Don't pee into the wind" is not a tip...

Anyone who has worked in the serving world knows that any paychecks received usually aren't going to buy more than two beers on dollar beer Tuesday at Silky's and it's almost more work than it's worth to make your way to the bank to deposit it. That said, tips are the only real source of income for anyone in the service industry (double entendre intended, not that I know much about the implied).

There's a trend that follows whether in the dining room or the bar. (The next few sentences apply only to men.)

We'll begin this series with those who are freshly started at their jobs. They come into happy hour after work and their bosses are leaning down the bar. They buy a few rounds and socialize and eventually, end up picking up the rest of the tab - hey big spender. The tip in this situation could go one of three ways.

The first situation could be that all of their co-workers and bosses will stand around and throw in some bills, since their drinks were paid for. This is the ideal situation, as this usually involves the largest tip. Because in his effort to be a big shot, the data entry clerk, who makes 1/5 of what their boss does, won't let anyone see the check. Thus everyone else over-tips.

The second situation involves the boss(es) actually seeing the check as they stand around drinking their Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks ($9.50 a shot). In an effort to make an even better impression, they leave a mediocre tip. Just enough to show that they can play the game.

The last situation is the worst. After everyone to impress is gone, they end up leaving a meager amount on their credit cards or lying on the table, due to the fact that they just spent their monthly beer allotment on a boss who won't even remember their name.




Moral of the story: don't buy your superiors' drinks to impress them, they don't care.

Part Two of Unwanted Customers: Indiana Jones

Despite the fact that work has been slow and we should appreciate every customer that comes in, there are still some that are less than welcome.

Unwanted customer number two:

Indiana Jones usually comes in on Friday nights. He always wears a suit and often has a cravat or matching silk tie and handkerchief.
From the neck down he looks like a character out of a Bond movie, from the neck up he resembles Gollum (only with big glasses and more wrinkles). The best part is his hat.

My first contact with him came on a particularly busy night. He situated himself at the end of the bar, which became his usual spot. People milling around began sitting their empty glasses at the edge of the bar in front of him as we got busier and stopped taking them.

Indiana had the last straw when a curly headed boy sat down his Sam Adams glass. He launched into a loud, expletive filled oration concerning his $400 Indian Jones hat and how Curly probably couldn't even afford a hat like that and would never see a hat as nice as that one again and how he would kick Curly's ass. Did I mention Indian Jones is probably in his 70s? Curly looked at him and walked away.

After his blow-up, he proceeded to come up to me and whisper with nicotine filled breath the extent of my beauty, then clean a spot off of my shirt with his finger and his spit. Obviously a good pick-up tactic.

The next Friday he was in, he attached himself to a table of two ladies enjoying some crab dip and vodka and tonics. He wouldn't leave them alone. I asked him to move, the bartender asked him to move, my manager asked him to move and finally he left.

Of course not before he argued that he already paid his check, when the bartender handed him his $60 bill, and after calling both of the women that he was previously hovering around, fat.

Let's hope this friday has better things in store.

Part One of Unwanted Customers: "Don't worry I'm a professional"

Every bar has their fair-share of unsavory and unwanted clientele. Despite being labeled as "upscale," my restaurant is no different. Generally speaking, there are two customers and one group of customers that everyone dreads waiting on.

This post will highlight the first of these customers, who was kicked out a few weeks ago for the first time. She would fall under the unsavory category, we'll call her Chastity.

Each evening that Chastity has come into the bar, she goes promptly to the bathroom for at least 15 minutes. During this time, those who work the bar take time to place bets as to whether she's snorting something off of the back of the toilet or bathing in the sink. Despite her bathroom activities, her eyes are always unfocused and she looks as if she belongs in Madame Tussuad's because she is always wearing the same expression - sort of a lopsided smile with half closed eyes.

Once she is out of the bathroom, she begins to call everyone baby and then finds any solo gentleman at the bar and clocks in. Although it hasn't been confirmed - all of us who have seen her are pretty sure that she is a prostitute. After spying her prey, Chastity swoops in and either invites herself to their table or hovers behind them diligently at the bar.

From there she proceeds to order things and have them added to their tab. Never has she paid for her own food or drinks - if she is solo, she will send it back half gone demanding a refund. In her soft-spoken voice, Chastity over-zealously flirts and tries to get the innocent man to take her home. She often follows them out as they leave and even if she is ignored, she will continue to try and strike up any sort of conversation.

During her last trip in, she asked the hostesses to use the restaurant phone. They wouldn't deny the request of a customer - so when our general manager walked out, there was Chastity, talking away. Upon hanging up she asked if she could make another call, our manager said something to the effect of, it's not for personal calls.

Chastity replied: "Don't worry, I'm a professional." - from there she proceeded to pull out a glittery pink cell phone:

...and continue her client calls.

Needless to say, she hasn't been allowed back in.

An Unsucessful Evening - the mayonnaise smell still has not washed out

The night started out like any other, with one of the bartenders, Kentucky, yelling "Let's get 'em drunk people, let's get 'em drunk." The only sad part is that at 3:30 in the afternoon there weren't that many people to get drunk. I proceeded to sit and eat, like usual, until 4:15 when I got my first table. From these small clues you can already tell that the night is taking a turn for the worse.

My first table turned out to be two business men from Tennessee and North Carolina. They were great, until they transferred to the dining room to have dinner. They assured me they would come back to the bar for after dinner drinks, all the while, praising my serving skills. This small fact holds importance only because what happened later that night.

While walking through the living room, I was balancing two plates when the first one fell. This is monumental, being that it is the first plate I have dropped in my five-year waitressing career. So I did what any typical cocktail waitress would do...I ran to the kitchen and got the bus boy to clean it up.

The only problem was, as the 1oz. container of cherry mayonnaise spun wildly out of control to the ground, it drenched me. I was practically covered from head to toe in cherry mayonnaise. I know this sounds impossible and like an exaggeration, but it's practically true. So before I was able to move to get the bus boy, I looked down having spread vegetables, french fries and a chicken breast sandwich around the room and realized that my ensemble was now a light pink color. Oh great.

The worst part of this scenario is that the men from the bar before and other guests had paused in their eating to take in my misfortune.

Hours after trying to wipe the mayonnaise off, to no avail, the men from before came back and decided to have a few beers with me.

While smelling of mayonnaise, I took the gentleman's' drink order, one Sierra Nevada and one I.C. Light - we are in Pittsburgh.


The next two hours consisted of me flirting diligently with their table in an effort to get a big tip. Once they found out that my boyfriend was at least a decade older than me, they launched into a 45 minute dissertation on my youth, beauty and the fact that I should not be dating a man who has kids in my own generation. The man from North Carolina tried to convince me that the man from Tennessee, who is potentially running for congress, had a son who was asked to take part in the adult film industry because of being so well-endowed, but decided not to and go to college instead - obviously someone I need to date.

The night went on like this and eventually we hugged good-bye like long-time friends. I figured that all my amicability and patience would pay off. As I opened my check presenter to look at the tip Mr. Tennessee left on his credit card, I was disappointed to see that it was only $6.10 on a $40 bill.

Not only had I wasted the last two hours flirting with these men when I could have been cleaning up and paying attention to my other tables, but they left me a $6 tip and I smelled like mayonnaise.

The mayonnaise smell still has not washed out of my apron.

Dating your co-workers will always be a bad idea - no exceptions.

My co-cocktailer, Vivian and I decided that we were going to call SoapNet to pilot her, and by default mine as well, work drama. Wherever there is romance to be found in the restaurant industry, disaster is sure to follow. There is a lesson to be learned from dating co-workers - don't do it.

Despite my abundant warnings, Vivian said yes when one of the cooks on culinary loan asked her out - we'll call him Rico: Their first date out to the bar was going seemingly well until they took some shots called "applesauce shots." After downing their first drink of the night, lover boy promptly threw up all over the bar and himself, the shot didn't "sit well" - no kidding. He threw up on the bar. Is this real? You can't write drama this good. First strike, not counting the fact that he doesn't pull his pants up the whole way.

After a few weeks of "dating" he started asking Vivian for money. Despite her misgivings, she loaned him $50 - which he actually paid back, this seems like bonus points, if we leave out the part where he borrowed her car all of the time and occasionally stood her up.

As the weeks wore on and Vivian became more attached and Rico more in-debt, he began to habitually stand Vivian up and was borrowing larger and larger sums of money from her. While we are working one night, the hostess, who had a convenient friendship with Rico, mentioned casually to Vivian that he texted her (the hostess) from the back of a cop car and had been arrested.

Evidently, while out driving, he was pulled over, in his own car, because half of his windshield is missing... Needless to say, when the cops made him get out of the car they found drug paraphernalia. Thus, he wasn't going to be able to meet Vivian. Just like any other normal girlfriend, Vivian and the hostess went to bail out Rico, finding out that he had not been registered at the Allegheny County Jail - being that he actually wasn't arrested. Strike two: telling his girlfriend he was in jail so he didn't have to hang out with her.

The third strike was the hardest. Vivian found out that she was carrying Rico's baby. Long story short, she ended up having a miscarriage after one month because of Rico's excessive drug habit. Before finding out that she was no longer a mom-to-be, Vivian told Rico about her pregnancy - to which he promptly replied that she was lying and a crazy bitch. Like this pretty, two-college-degree holding cocktailer would lie about being pregnant with the baby of drug user who lives in the basement of his younger brother's house. C'mon Rico, be realistic.

After a week Vivian gave up on getting her money back. After all, when her broke ex-boyfriend threatened her with a restraining order and screamed obscenities about her in the kitchen, we knew he was the one who needed the psychiatric help.

The last two weeks Rico has called off work all but one day and owes the bartender a couple hundred bucks as well. Looks like he's not coming back.

Just the other day when one of the servers asked Vivian to go out - we just looked at each other. I clearly informed him that she doesn't date co-workers. Besides, in the sentence following "Want to go out sometime," he said "I want to be a breeder." And that definitely would have been a poor life decision.

The sad part is, this is all true.