Dating : Dates With a Bad Tipper

Reason #8745 I’m still single.

I go through flurries of time during which I date, and my casual relationship with The Bad Tipper occurred during one of these times. We met on a dating app, and after exchanging messages over the course of a couple of days, we decided to meet at a wine bar one evening for drinks.

Our first date was wonderful. He was witty and charming. It was clear that he was intelligent; he spoke happily about his job and his siblings, and we had a lot in common. At the end of the evening, he picked up the tab and we parted ways. When I got home, I found that I had a “goodnight” text from him, which made me happy, because it seemed as though my feelings about the date were reciprocated.

We went on a few more dates, and I continued to be interested. I’m slow to fall for someone, and this time was no different — but I felt good that my interest in him sustained. I liked hearing about the day he had at work, and the conversations he’d had with friends. I liked hearing about the hikes he went on over the weekends and some of the new recipes he was planning to try over the next week. I began to allow myself to consider what life might look like with this man as a partner.

But then, it happened. The kink in my plan, the crack in his shiny veneer. We went out to dinner, split the check, and I saw for the first time, that he was a poor tipper.

I’m aware that tipping is subjective.

I’m aware that servers are not guaranteed tips. I’m aware that I, as a patron of any establishment, am not required to give my waitstaff a tip. I’m aware that 15% used to be the running standard for a tip, and that now it’s increased to 20, or possibly even 25%. Perhaps I should not judge someone based on what they tip.

But, I’m a flawed human being, and I judged my date on the tip he left. I judged him hard.

As he pushed his half of the receipt toward the center of the table, I caught a glimpse of his tip. I initially felt shocked, and then did some quick math in my head. He had left approximately 13%. I left roughly 26%.

I racked my brain, thinking about the service. Had it been bad? Had our server been inattentive? No, he hadn’t.

Had my date’s food been terrible? If it had — did that even matter? Our server didn’t cook the food, and my date didn’t complain about it.

As we walked out of the restaurant, my date asked if I wanted to get a drink at the bar down the street. I told him I was tired and I went home.

The next day, I sat with my co-workers, picking at my lunch.

“How was dinner last night?” one of them asked me.

I sighed.

“Oh no, what happened?” she asked. “I thought you liked this one.”

“I did,” I said. “Or, I do. It’s just, I feel like he kind of stiffed our waiter.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He gave a pretty bad tip,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, her face falling. “Bummer.”

“Am I being unreasonable for caring about this?” I asked. “After all, it’s up to him how much he wants to tip, or if he wants to tip at all.”

“True,” she said. “But unless the service was terrible, there’s not a real reason for a bad tip. But, maybe he just calculated too quickly. If it doesn’t happen again, then I think you can write this off as a one-time error.”

Our next date was — again — wonderful.

But unfortunately — again — his tip was not.

“Did you like your dinner?” I asked him, as I looked at the meager 10% he left the waiter.

“Yeah it was great,” he said. “Why, didn’t you like yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, too cowardly to ask him why his tip was so small, while simultaneously leaving a 40% tip of my own to make up for what the server wouldn’t receive on the other receipt.

I wanted to get past it. I liked everything else about him.

But I just couldn’t. During our next date, when he left $5.50 on a $70 tab (his half), I realized I wouldn’t be able to see him again.

You picked me up for this date in a BMW, I thought to myself.

You own a three-bedroom condo with a view of the Atlantic in the most expensive part of the city, I thought to myself.

If the food was so bad, if the service was so bad, you should have said something. Otherwise, I know you can afford to tip 20%, I thought to myself.

I thought these things to myself but never said them to his face. Money is tricky, and I felt like I’d be overstepping if I asked him about this practice.

Still, if I had found the courage to ask — maybe something would have changed. Maybe he’d have begun tipping his waitstaff better. Maybe he’d not realized the nuances of tipping practice (doubt it).

But, deep down, I worried that this behavior stemmed from something I wouldn’t like.

The bad tips felt entitled. They felt to me like, “This is my place in the world. I sit and eat, and you bring me my food. I’m royalty, you’re my servant.”

I’ve never been a server. I’ve never relied on tips for my salary. I understand that the main function of waitstaff or server is to wait on, and serve — but it still feels that decent service should earn a decent tip — and we only ever had decent service.

I began reviewing his behavior toward the waiters we’d had, and I realized that while he wasn’t ever outright mean to them, he wasn’t horribly polite, either. He didn’t say “thank you” when the server refilled his water glass. He didn’t say “please,” when he asked for another glass of wine.

These small kindnesses — which are not required — are so important to me. I melt every time my niece says “peeeeease” when she wants something; I couldn’t possibly raise a child with a man who didn’t model the tiniest bits of social decorum in a restaurant.

We stopped seeing one another.

The next time he asked to go out, I told him I didn’t see a future for us — he accepted this without asking why.

When I told my friends I wouldn’t be seeing him again — and gave them the reasons why — they all understood.

“Ugh. You obviously can’t date a bad tipper,” one of them said, as the others nodded in agreement.

Every now and then someone will say to me, “Really? You broke up with a man over that?”

And, the answer is whole-heartedly yes.