Saturday we go to the Saturday market, where the air smells of sausages on the grill. Yesterday the wind whipped about my knees, between where my skirt ends and my cowboy boots start. It lifted, the wind, the corners of the hand-knit scarves on sale and the edge of the mushroom man’s foraging hat; it blew through the playground, the wind did, and we shivered as we picked out eggs and potatoes and mutant organic carrots. One carrot is shaped like a pair of pants. I think about that carrot with its chubby, tapering legs, and I think about it climbing out of the bowl once we get home, and creeping about at night, rearranging my books and hiding the last tin of plum tomatoes.
Em was in the ’hood for a haircut later, at my haircutting place. “The storefront is purple,” I’d texted her, but then I walked past it and it was green. My mind remembers what it wants to remember.
I’d gone to the salon for the first time a couple of weeks ago. The head massage was lovely, the fringe was looking fine. At the end of it, I stood by the counter up front and didn’t know whether to tip. Do you tip your hairdressers, people of England? I stood there and fiddled with my wallet and pretended to look for my debit card while I thought about it. The questions grew: If I tipped, how much would I tip? And was I to tip the shampoo girl? Yes? How much? And how long had I been standing here now, pretending I couldn’t find the card I was hiding with my calculatedly posed hand? I capitulated, and paid only what was asked for.
I’d asked Emily later if I should have tipped. “When I left,” I said, “they didn’t scream at me or spit at me or anything.” “Next time you go back,” Em said, “they will spit in your shampoo.”
Em was in the ’hood, I was saying, for a haircut, and then she said, so innocently she said, “Come with me to Waitrose.” How I long for someone to say these words to me! Olive’s eyes, I know, had already glazed over at the thought of the wide aisles, the fancy brioche loaves, the thick cuts of organic beef, the bottles of pulpy orange juice tasting like the sun, freshly squeezed. “Come with me to Waitrose,” she said, and I felt like a mouse on my way to America, where the streets are paved with cheese. We stuck our arms out for the little 393 bus and jiggled and bumped up Highbury New Park while the chavs in their sweatpants practised pull-ups on the bars.
Em was in the ’hood for a haircut later, at my haircutting place. “The storefront is purple,” I’d texted her, but then I walked past it and it was green. My mind remembers what it wants to remember.
I’d gone to the salon for the first time a couple of weeks ago. The head massage was lovely, the fringe was looking fine. At the end of it, I stood by the counter up front and didn’t know whether to tip. Do you tip your hairdressers, people of England? I stood there and fiddled with my wallet and pretended to look for my debit card while I thought about it. The questions grew: If I tipped, how much would I tip? And was I to tip the shampoo girl? Yes? How much? And how long had I been standing here now, pretending I couldn’t find the card I was hiding with my calculatedly posed hand? I capitulated, and paid only what was asked for.
I’d asked Emily later if I should have tipped. “When I left,” I said, “they didn’t scream at me or spit at me or anything.” “Next time you go back,” Em said, “they will spit in your shampoo.”
Em was in the ’hood, I was saying, for a haircut, and then she said, so innocently she said, “Come with me to Waitrose.” How I long for someone to say these words to me! Olive’s eyes, I know, had already glazed over at the thought of the wide aisles, the fancy brioche loaves, the thick cuts of organic beef, the bottles of pulpy orange juice tasting like the sun, freshly squeezed. “Come with me to Waitrose,” she said, and I felt like a mouse on my way to America, where the streets are paved with cheese. We stuck our arms out for the little 393 bus and jiggled and bumped up Highbury New Park while the chavs in their sweatpants practised pull-ups on the bars.
posted by stellou at 5:44 PM
4 Comments:
I had this same question in Dublin (though not about haircuts, which I'm not even sure how much to tip for at home). "Does one tip at restaurants here, and if so, is it 15 to 20 percent, like in New York, or is it rounding up a tiny bit, as in France?"
My hostess didn't know. Her husband deals with these things. She hardly ever eats out by herself—or eats out at all, being yoked with two kids. She wasn't even aware that in New York one tips a flat $1 per drink at a bar, because she's never been to a bar.
We didn't tip.
That evening, we asked Mr. Host, who equivocated. Then I checked Time Out Dublin, which said to tip 12 to 15 percent, unless the restaurant says le service est compris. Oops.
AAAAAAA you asked the host!!! Like, at the restaurant?? That is GREAT. When I first came to London, I asked the first cab driver who drove the first cab I took if I should tip him. He said that if I'd been satisfied with the service I could round the fare up the 50p or whatever to the next pound, so I did. He was a jolly man, a chatty one -- and later I checked with the London natives and they said he'd suggested a fair tip. So sometimes asking is weird but good!
Do you know that in London you don't tip at the bar? Very confusing, all of this.
Yes, I do know that in London you don't tip at the bar—because when I was in London visiting you last winter, and we went to that gastropub where they wouldn't serve us dessert (bastards!!), I tipped the publican £1. And then you gave me a heads-up on the etiquette.
As for asking my host, no, not the host at the restaurant. I meant my host in Dublin, i.e., my hostess's husband. He goes out to restaurants much more often than she does, so you'd think he'd have the 411, but he didn't.
I should also mention that even though Time Out Dublin said that one doesn't tip taxi drivers there, I tipped the guy who drove me to the airport 5 euros. Because he (a) picked me up at 4 a.m., (b) was playing music that didn't suck, and (c) was the only Irish person I exchanged more than ten words with during the entire trip.
we tipped our waiter 5 euro at mariage freres in paris because he brought us complimentary cake. when i walked out of the tea shop after making a nice purchase for home he had asked my sister if we had realised that we had left such a tip!
in london we only tipped the good people at moro, and not only because they didn't charge us for the yoghurt cake, but because they were really NICE. it was such a change!
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