Reader, it happened to me: I tipped at a brick-and-mortar retail store.
I was picking up the cheapest bottle of red plonk I could find to turn into mulled wine, and the card machine asked me to add a tip. Naturally, I added 18 per cent in thanks to the person who put my bottle into a paper bag, wished them a lovely day, and silently grumbled about the fact that it’s impossible to buy a shitty bottle of wine for cheap these days.
But when retail workers have reached the point of asking for tips to help stay afloat, something’s gone sideways.
Retail workers do a huge amount of work beyond manning the cash register—inventory, restocks, amassing product knowledge, answering inane phone calls and emails, dealing with bad customers, cleaning and merchandising and organizing and troubleshooting—which they largely aren’t adequately compensated for.
That ought to be fixed with higher wages, reflected in higher sales prices for items or other business-side changes—not relying on the variable generosity of customers, whose response to tipping likely falls anywhere from 25 per cent blessings to impotent fury.
I’m originally from the UK, where tipping culture is far less prevalent (and red wine in convenience stores is abundant, cheap, and terrible). The standard is maybe 10 per cent in restaurants. These days it’s done on machines, but I have mortifying memories of my father rooting through his coin wallet to find exact change. A note tucked under a plate, a handful of coins nobody wants, a passive-aggressive penny for the ultimate insult—profane rituals, shrouded in secrecy shame. Talking about money is not polite.
Having spent my adult life in Vancouver, obviously I’ve adjusted. Tattoo artist? That’s a 20 per cent tip, or otherwise some kind of trade-economy-style gift. Hair cut? Tip. Craft market? Tip. Drink at the Vogue Theatre? Tip—with the quiet rationale that bar sales keep live music venues in business, so it’s my civic duty to spend $17 on a tallboy.
Since 2020, prices have skyrocketed and, at best, levelled off high. Using 2002 prices as a baseline in the Consumer Price Index (CPI), prices in BC have risen from 132.1 in January 2020 to 152.8 in November 2023 (the most recent month we have data for at time of writing). That’s a 20 per cent jump in just under three calendar years.
Preceding three-year chunks saw BC’s prices increase at a fraction of that rate: an increase of 4.9 per cent from 2008 to 2011; 2.3 per cent between 2011 and 2014; and 6.4 per cent between 2014 and 2017.
Even for 2017 to 2020, when prices rose noticeably faster than they previously had, the CPI rose by “only” 8.6 per cent (to 132.1 from 123.5). We all know that this kind of price jump we’re currently living through isn’t normal—but it’s a bit jarring to clock just how aberrant it is.
To be fair, BC’s minimum wage has increased over that same time period from $13.85 per hour in January 2020 to $16.75 per hour by November 2023—a 21 per cent increase, in line with CPI. But that’s still far less than what the living wage in Vancouver has climbed to.
While it wasn’t calculated in 2020 due to COVID-19 disruption, the 2021 living wage was $20.52, and shot up to $25.68 in 2023—a 25 per cent increase. In cold, hard dollars, it means $5 extra per hour—way more than the $2.90 real-money increase you see on minimum wage. However, who among us has seen our wages go up 25 per cent in two years? If you do contract work for the City of Vancouver, you certainly haven’t, as council voted to ditch the living wage last year.
Since 2021, liquor servers have had the same minimum wage as any other worker (they used to make less). That’s a huge win for servers, who no longer have to rely on the human generosity of tips to get by. But we know those minimum wages still aren’t enough to live on. We tip restaurant workers because we know they don’t make enough, and we want to thank them for bringing our food (and hopefully splitting the earnings with kitchen staff, too).
Retail workers don’t do quite as much visible labour, but they’re still getting the short financial end of the stick. So it makes sense that retail workers—disproportionately likely to be getting paid less than living wage, dealing with all the sometimes literal shit that so many other service workers have to—are getting bolder about asking for tips.
So now we’re all strapped for cash, interacting with workers who are also strapped for cash, while the people at the top of big companies are making more money than ever before. Boy howdy, I sure am glad J. Patrick Doyle at Restaurant Brands International Inc. made $151.8 million in 2022; trickle-down economics assures me that the talented workers at Tim Hortons and Burger King who keep the company alive are getting juicy raises to reflect their hard work! (Of course, if you paid all those workers at 28,000 restaurants worldwide fairly, the CEO wouldn’t make $151.8 million.)
Talking to CBC News, personal finance advisors had different suggestions on how to navigate the minefield—from simply ignoring the tip option, or choosing a set dollar amount rather than a percentage, to budgeting it into your spending like an additional tax. The New York Times suggests ignoring tipping at kiosks or counters (though the expert’s charge of “entitlement” definitely smacks of being someone who hasn’t worked service in an extremely long time), while the vice-president at Restaurants Canada told CTV that “there aren’t any expectations” on tipping in grocery or convenience stores.
Tipping, originally, was supposed to be optional: the social necessity of it today undercuts its ability to actually show gratitude. So stiffing can feel rude, even if it’s fine from an etiquette standpoint.
It’s okay to wonder why tipping is everywhere now. It’s okay to worry about your finances. But this would be a different conversation if wages were increasing fairly for everyone. Instead, the rich are having their cakes and eating them, too—and we’re left debating if we need to leave a tip for the crumbs.
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