Please stop making tipping more awkward

I LIVE with tipping trauma.

After I received my first pay cheque at my first full-time job – back in New York in 1984 – I treated my parents to dinner in Flushing, Queens, where we lived. That Cantonese banquet hall – buzzy, clattering parties scattered among lazy-susan tables – is long gone, replaced by a succession of other Asian eateries. I’ve even forgotten the restaurant’s name. But the aftermath of the dinner is indelible.

In my nervousness over spending my hard-earned money, I skimped on the tip. Just as we were out the door, a furious man ran after us, yelling in Cantonese (which I don’t speak) and waving the itemised bill. I was flustered but soon got the point (my mother understood Cantonese). So I pulled out some cash and made him less furious. I was abashed: I was celebrating my livelihood by diminishing someone else’s take-home pay.