When we last left off: I was in Kumquat (not the real name) restaurant. After finally getting my order I had the task of wrestling an
intimidating vessel of black bean with kale soup. In spite of being blindsided by the surprise ingredient, numerous chunks of succulent chicken, I valiantly tried to
consume the delicious contents of the foot tub size bowl. Sated and pleasantly overwhelmed, I conceded the win to several
golf ball size chicken chunks bobbing victoriously in the remaining savory bouillabaisse. Content, I sought my check. The hostess passed
within arm length and I caught her attention with a finger at half-mast.
“The soup had chicken, lots and lots of
chicken.”
She paused perplexed. I continued.
“I’m not complaining. It’s just you said black bean with kale and
the soup had lots of chicken.”
She fixed her
face and said,
“Yes, there’s chicken in it, but that’s the way it’s
written up, black bean with kale.”
"No problem, I'll take my check."
Two emails later my server Kira, appeared at my
table.
“How was the
soup?”
“Actually it was very good, but there was a lot of chicken in it. It was more like chicken soup with black
beans and kale.”
“There’s
chicken in it but that’s the way it’s written up, black bean with kale,
anything else?”
“No thank you Kira.”
“Have a good
night.”
And with that, Kira placed the check on my table and
left.
The check was correct. $6.00 for
that gigantic tasty bowl of soup, with 53 cents added for tax. No problem. And how nice, just above the 10% discount
incentive offer was the suggested tip: 16% = $1.08 and 20% - $1.20. I decided to leave $1.25 on the table, pay
the hostess at the door with a twenty and get on home.
The hostess had been at the door when I rose from my
table, but where was she now? No
hostess, no Kira, but the bartender might be able to help.
“I’d like to pay my check.”
Her face said, “This is not my job”, her mouth said,
“I’ll get your waitress.”
I checked four email messages until Kira returned
from the hidden world where servers… well, hide. From behind the bar Kira took my check and
$20 dollar bill. From the cash register
she handed me two 5’s, three one’s, a receipt and went on her way. The receipt total read $6.53 and I had
thirteen dollars in hand. I have math
anxiety so I counted my money several times and used my fingers to confirm. Yes, I
was short forty-seven cents. I offered the bartender my hands, receipt in one,
the money Kira had just given me in the other.
“I’m short forty-seven cents change.”
Sighing, she said,
“Since the waiters don’t carry nickels and dimes on
them, they just round up.”
That’s when one of the voices in my head, Penny
Pincher to be exact, shouted “What the fuck???
Bitch just took that money out the cash
register behind the bar, don’t tell me there’s not forty-seven god damn
cents in that register!!” I ignored
Penny’s uncharacteristic profanity riddled outburst and quietly reiterated,
“I’m short on my change.”
“I’ll call your waitress.”
The bartender
sighed. When Kira finally appeared on my side of the bar, I calmly said
“I’m short my forty-seven cents change.”
Readers, I kid you not. Kira tilted her head and said
“We round up.”
Now I’ll admit I’m still catching up to the 21st
century, but when did restaurants rounding
up your bill become the new
norm?
“You round up without mentioning it to the
customer?”
Kira set her jaw, veiled her eyes but not her tone
of incredulity
“You want me to break a dollar?”
Penny Pincher stomped her foot, rocked her neck and started
looking for the nearest exit out of my head; the better to throttle Kira. I calmly replied
“Yes.”
In my head Penny shouted, Break a dollar
Bitch!! Step on a crack and break your
momma’s back! I said
“I gave you more than the suggested tip didn’t I?”
“Did you?”
Kira shot back at my feeble attempt to reason with a
wait person who might possibly handle my
food again as she swiftly left my side.
For a reality check, I turned to the two bar patrons
who’d been sitting silent witness to the exchange. Under my gaze, a sister silently adjusted
her Trini braids
and sipped her Appletini
like she had no dog in this fight; I said in their general direction
“I’m short forty-seven cents because they rounded
up. I want my change.”
The brother at the bar lifted his burger and
murmured from behind a shield of beef, lettuce and bun
“If that’s what you want. It is your money.”
Ignoring the hint of disdain (or was it dismissal?)
that dripped from his burger, Penny Pincher in an effort to rile up the other voices in my head chanted, “It’s my
money! It’s my money!” Kira appeared before the other voices could pick up the mantra. With a sullen thump, she placed a dollar and forty cents on
the bar.
“This is
yours.”
I pushed Kira’s dollar aside and pushed Penny
Pincher to her corner. I palmed the
forty cents on the bar and seven cents short made my way into the night. I was reminded in uncomfortable bold relief
how teen-age me had resented and been so embarrassed my mother’s never ending and quite vocal outrage at rising prices and
her tight- fist efforts to economize on her domestic worker wages.
Did that rounding
up incident really just happen to me?
Did I miss the breaking news flash that restaurants agreed, for whatever
reason, to round up the customer’s bill?
Who gets the profit? Is that
accumulated currency shared by the staff or does it go straight to the
owner? And why did Kira sound befuddled
asking,
“You want me to break a dollar for you?”
“Hell yes Bitch, if it means I get MY MONEY!”
Penny Pincher hissed from her corner of my mind where
she sat drying Abe Lincoln pennies she’d picked up from damp rest room floors.
