I hadn’t planned on doing so, but I’m glad I was told I didn’t have to, because I now feel it’s officially on the record:
“You don’t have to tip. It’s just take-out.”
That’s what the guy at a pizza place in Kent told me Sunday when I signed the credit card receipt for my take-out pie.
Good to know.
As for the brewpub bartender who accommodated my special request and got me out the door in time to pick up my pie while it was still hot from the oven, she got a $3 tip on a $2.99 tab.
To the manager of the Federal Way fish restaurant where a customer allegedly got frisky with a waitress Sunday night (Sitting in the adjacent booth, I saw an awkward hug and later heard “sexual harassment” and “touched a button” in the follow-up discussion):
Dude, you are one cool cucumber. I would have had the dishwashers knee-cap the (alleged) creep. Customer-service kudos to you, Joe, for the diplomacy (and restraint) you demonstrated.
Now, let’s talk about that rock that landed in my steamer clams. Not a pebble, but a rock bigger than the clams themselves.
Whom do you tip for a rock? Charlie Brown?
Good food, but good grief.