More is always better
It is snowing in New York as I write this, but fortunately I am no longer there. With the heat picking up in New Delhi, I don’t know which is better, though I can vouch with some truth that the chilling winds of a New York winter are worse than the hot winds of a New Delhi summer, perhaps because the torrid weather is still to set in. The airconditioning currently tends to leave you feeling colder than one might hope for, particularly if you sit right under the draft of the vent — as I do in office.
In New York, on a particularly busy evening where you’re making a couple of pit stops before heading out to a restaurant, you will have spent more time putting on and taking off layers of clothes — overcoat, jacket, scarf, gloves, cap — than at the actual hobnobbing itself. To make it worse, you’ll find you left your wallet, or credit cards, in the jacket at the check-in desk instead of carrying it in person, and when this happens the third time, your colleagues are sure to think you’re merely saying this to avoid paying, which is not the truth, though they look unconvinced.
Over weekends, most restaurants are packed, and if you don’t have a reservation, but are hoping that a spot will open up in, say, a half hour, you’re left to stand awkwardly in the space between the tables, or allowed to grab one seat at a bar where your group of five may be served drinks but they won’t take your coats — yet. With the heating cranked to full, you’re left to literally sweat it out, but the alternate — waiting outside — is less desirable. So you slow-boil till a table becomes available, at which point you hastily rid yourself of the encumbrances of winter — and damn if the wallet wasn’t in the jacket that was taken away. “All right, all right,” say your guests, “we’ll settle up later,” thinking it’s not going to happen, even though you’ve now made a virtue of carrying enough cash to avoid further embarrassment — which, when you’re outside, means you throw a generous fistful in their direction before they, or you, disappear thankfully into the warmth of a taxi.
Being generous in New York, however, isn’t a matter of choice any longer. You can’t grab a takeaway cappuccino without dispensing of gratuity by guilt. From taxis to restaurants, a 10 per cent tip is no longer a feasible choice, because 15 per cent is suggested as minimum, but they thoughtfully calculate it at 18 and 20 per cent as well (some going as high as 25 per cent). What is one to do? I usually opt for the middle path of 18 per cent, but it feels outrageous. Why should one have to pay so much extra for being ferried from, say, Fifth Avenue to Columbus Circle? Or because someone saw you to your table while you grabbed a buffet breakfast?
But at least bills come with tipping suggestions. What does one give to the concierge, or bellhop, or a building doorman who hailed you a cab, without inviting a sneer — because either you’ve erred on the side of caution and given too little, in which case you’re a skinflint, or you’ve been overly lavish, in which case you’re a wannabe. I’ve no idea, and with no guidelines to help trod a middle path, have opted for the American way of doing business where more is always better. Get the hint?