Food for Thought

We wandered through the airport, weary, disgruntled, and in search of sustenance. Everyone was fat, white, and loud. Except for the black folks, who were fat, black, and even louder.

We eventually stumbled into a food court area, and perused the selections. Everything looked humungous and unappetizing. All the food counters were gigantic, with immense cavernous kitchen spaces yawning indeterminably behind them.

And damn was it all expensive!

We eventually decided on some organic soup joint, and approached the counter to order. Here we found a staff member talking on her personal cell phone a few feet behind the register, which she continued to do for about two minutes while we patiently awaited her attention.

After finally ending her call, she uttered “Sorry ’bout that,” and then pretended to provide service.

I ordered a garden burger and cream of tomato soup. The burger was supposed to come with fries, but being ever vigilant to avoid deep fryers, I asked if it were possible to swap the fries for something else.

“You can get an apple instead,” she explained.

“Great, I’ll take the apple.”

“Your order will be up in a minute.”

I paid by card, and she handed me a receipt for $16.62 with a line to write in a tip. I rounded up to $20, signed, and handed it back. As The Princess and I took our seats, we shook our heads at each other in bewilderment.

“Why do we have to pay tip?” she asked, dropping the article from her sentence as her Japanese accent leaves her wont to do.

“It’s expected in the States,” I reminded her.

“That’s not the service,” she continued, losing a second round of article roulette, “In Japan, the service is very good and no one pays a tip.” (Win!)

“I know, Dear… I know.”

We heaved a collaborative sigh, and awaited our order.

The disparity in service quality between Japan and America is in fact downright shameful. The lowest level of service in Japan frequently exceeds what we think of as top notch here in the States.

Our standards are actually that low.

And yet the prices are higher in the States, AND we have to pay a tip.

Despite the All-American, “pro-incentive” rhetoric surrounding the issue, the fact is that the tipping system is just one more way for businesses to pass the costs along to you. Why pay your employees a decent wage when you can get your customers to make up the difference?

Giddyup cowboy.

When the tipped out soup minion called our order, we had to go to the counter to get our own food, despite the fact that we were the only customers present.

Upon the tray, with its lid slouching atop a disordered heap of fixings, a humungous veggie burger slumped beside an apple that looked very much like a pile of french fries. Next to this inelegant display of culinary effrontery stood a paper tub of soup, its dribbled contents stretching halfway across the tray to a saran wrapped bread roll.

I gently pointed out to the ladle slave that my order was off, and wouldn’t you know it—I got to grab an apple from the basket and keep the fries.

Quality American service.

“Did we pay the tip for this?!” moaned The Princess in disbelief, once we had returned to our table.

“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing…” I muttered.

To be fair, the food wasn’t half bad, albeit overpriced, and the apple was outstanding—coincidentally, a nice ripe Fuji.

As we ate, armed guards swarmed back and forth through the corridors and around our tables on motorized segues, their radios buzzing ceaseless security chatter: The eyes and ears of Big Brother. Perhaps for some folks, the presence of weapon wielding state-sponsored thugs makes them feel all warm and fuzzy, but for The Princess and me, it has always been grotesque and offensive.

We finished up and wandered back into the airport corridors of Fortress America.