The Ballad of Liz and James - 6

Service is SO much better in the US than in Oxford. In the US I’m
surprised and slightly annoyed if I’m not greeted and sat in thirty
seconds. In Oxford I’ll feel touched by God if a spotty youth
snarls at me after thirty minutes and dares me to order. The
Girlfriend says “Calm down”.

But that’s only one side of the coin. The flip side is tipping.
Believe me brethren, there is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, that
strikes fear into an Englishman’s heart more than tipping in
America. You want to turn an Englishman’s bowels to ice? Why did
you waste all that time fighting the redcoats? All you had to do was
give them the bill after lunch and watch them try and work out how
much to tip. Brits don’t tip! A hundred times in the US and I still
don’t know how you do it. You guys just write a number and that’s
that. Where is the existential angst! I demand existential angst!
This is how it goes. A Brit will be given a bill for $51.75. He’ll
work out that 10% is about $5 and that 20% is about $10. So he
settles on leaving $60. But wait, it hasn’t even started yet. The
waiter was very attentive. A dollar more? He got the salad dressing
wrong. A dollar less? Oh My God it’s a minefield! Will her babies
not have milk if I don’t tip more? Will she chase me down the
street screaming “Cheap Brit Bastard!” It gets worse. That’s
when The Girlfriend says “You’re over thinking it. 15% is middle
of the road expected. Texas tax is 8.25% so just double what the tax
is for the tip and you’re good. If you really like the waiter tip
20%. But that’s because I’m not a cheap bastard like you and I
was a short order cook.” How the hell does that help? And I’m an
accountant! By now I’ve ordered a scotch and that’s completely
ruined everything and I have to start again.

The Girlfriend also doesn’t believe me about British regional
accents. I tell her that in the UK I can tell within twenty miles
where someone is from as soon as they speak.

“You’re just full of Brit shit!”

Walking down Sixth Street and I hear a street entertainer. I can’t
see him yet. I tell her he’s from Leeds, my home town.

“You are so full of Brit shit!”

So anyway, we hugged and kissed and swapped stories of our
childhoods.

“You just got lucky.

James