The guy sitting next to me said:
“Add 10 for yourself, aye?”
Just like that. Smooth. Effortless. Like he’d done it a hundred times.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there—wide-eyed—realizing something unsettling:
Shit.
I’ve been eating out.
Thinking that shit was included.
Like a service fairy just waltzed in and sprinkled gratitude on my behalf.
How silly of me.
In the US, tipping is built into your blood.
You feel guilty if you don’t.
You calculate percentages like your soul depends on it.
The card reader practically shames you if you hit “No Tip.”
like this —
https://youtu.be/02arY49yjDg?si=ELlZczEzJDsyUXYw
But here?
Silence.
No prompt. No reminder.
Just you, the server, and a quiet little test of character. Which apparently I’ve been failing.
Turns out, when the card reader doesn’t ask…neither does to receipt…
You’re supposed to In England.
“Add 10 for yourself, aye?”
Got it now, mate. Lesson learned.
I’ll do better next time