Pourboire: The Curious Culture of Tipping in France (#723)
There is something wonderfully literal about the French word for a tip.
Pourboire.
For drinking.
The word comes from the idea of giving someone a little extra money with which to buy a drink. A small gesture of appreciation rather than payment for services rendered.
And buried within that simple expression is much of the philosophy that still distinguishes French tipping culture from that of countries such as the United States.
A pourboire is not supposed to complete someone’s salary.
It is supposed to say thank you.
And that distinction changes almost everything.
Service Compris
Sit down at a café in Paris, order a coffee, have lunch in Provence, or linger over dinner in a small village restaurant, and the price you see generally incorporates an important French concept:
Service compris.
Service included.
In French restaurants and cafés, the advertised price includes service. The customer is not expected to perform a calculation at the end of the meal to determine how much the waiter should actually be paid.
That does not mean French people never tip.
They do.
But traditionally the tip is discretionary. You might leave some coins after a coffee, round €18.40 up to €20, or leave several euros after a particularly enjoyable meal. The amount is less important than the gesture.
The pourboire says:
I appreciate what you did.
It does not say:
I am responsible for paying you.
That difference can be startling for an American visitor.
The American Tip
In the United States, tipping has evolved into something quite different.
The tip may technically remain voluntary, but culturally it often feels anything but voluntary.
In many restaurants, customers routinely add a substantial percentage to the bill, and suggested amounts appear conveniently - and sometimes rather insistently - on the payment screen.
18 percent. 20 percent. 25 percent. Sometimes more.
The transaction can become strangely moral. Leaving too little may be interpreted not merely as dissatisfaction with the service but as unfairness to the worker.
There is a reason for this.
The American system has historically allowed many tipped employees to be paid under a wage structure in which tips form an important part of their expected compensation.
The precise rules vary between states and jurisdictions, but the cultural result is unmistakable.
In the US the customer has become part of the payroll system.
France approaches the relationship differently.
The price on the menu is much closer to the price of the complete experience.
Food. Preparation. Table. Service.
All bundled together.
The Soup Nazi of Rue Saint-Ferdinand
We experienced the difference rather memorably while having dinner at Le Franc-Tireur, near Rue Saint-Ferdinand in Paris.
Our waiter was not rude.
That distinction is important.
He was perfectly polite.
But he was brusque. Very brusque.
There was no lingering at the table. No small talk. No elaborate discussion of the menu.
Questions were answered efficiently. Orders were taken decisively. Plates appeared. Plates disappeared.
Everything about him seemed to say:
Chop chop.
There was an unmistakable sense that he knew exactly how his restaurant should operate, and our responsibility was not to interfere unnecessarily with the process.
After a while, I realized whom he reminded me of.
The Soup Nazi.
Everyone at the table immediately agreed.
Fans of Seinfeld will remember the character: the terrifyingly efficient proprietor of a New York soup stand whose customers knew precisely how they were expected to order.
Step forward. Know what you want. Place your order. Step aside.
Our Parisian waiter was nowhere near that extreme, of course.
But the resemblance in style was irresistible.
Know what you want. Order it. Eat it. Next.
And yet, strangely, I rather enjoyed him.
Because there was no pretense.
He wasn't trying to charm us into a larger gratuity. He didn't tell us his name, crouch beside the table, compliment our choices or return every few minutes to ask whether everything was tasting wonderful.
He was there to do a job. And he did it. Efficiently. Professionally. Brusquely.
Chop chop.
And that dinner made me think more carefully about something I had noticed throughout France.
Is the Waiter Supposed to Be Your Friend?
American visitors can occasionally interpret French restaurant service as indifferent or even unfriendly.
But perhaps we are measuring it against the wrong standard.
The French waiter is traditionally a professional rather than a performer. His or her job is to know the menu, take the order, serve the meal properly and allow you to enjoy it.
There is no requirement to become your temporary best friend.
Indeed, some of the behaviors Americans regard as attentive service can seem unnecessary elsewhere.
Constantly asking whether everything is all right, repeatedly refilling water glasses, introducing oneself by name, interrupting conversations to check on the meal.
These are cultural conventions rather than universal definitions of good service.
And there is an economic dimension.
In an American restaurant, where tips can represent a significant component of a server's income, friendliness acquires economic value. Smiles, introductions, attentiveness and repeated inquiries are not necessarily insincere. Most certainly are not.
But the system rewards them.
Our waiter at Le Franc-Tireur appeared to have no particular need to make us love him.
Whether we loved him was beside the point.
He brought our food. He brought our wine. He did his job.
And service compris.
Which raises an interesting question:
Do we tip someone for being charming, or for being good at their job?
The Rest of the World
There is no universal tipping culture.
In Japan, tipping has traditionally been unusual and can sometimes create confusion. Excellent service is generally considered part of the transaction rather than something requiring an additional cash reward.
In Australia and New Zealand, tipping has traditionally been optional. A tip for particularly good service is welcome, but paying the amount on the bill is ordinarily sufficient.
Across Europe, customs vary considerably. In many countries, wages, service charges and social conventions reduce the expectation of the large percentage-based gratuities familiar to Americans. Rounding up or leaving a modest additional amount is common in some places.
In the United Kingdom, restaurants - particularly in larger cities - may add a discretionary service charge to the bill. This creates another variation: the additional payment is suggested automatically, although a genuinely discretionary charge can generally be removed.
In parts of Latin America, Asia, Africa and the Middle East, yet other conventions prevail. Ten percent may be customary. A service charge may already have been added. Cash may be preferred. In some places, nothing additional is expected.
The lesson for the traveler is simple:
Tipping is cultural, not universal.
What seems generous in one country may seem unnecessary in another.
And what seems normal at home can appear extravagant somewhere else.
The Tip Screen Goes Global
But something is changing.
The electronic payment terminal has become an international traveler.
Technology increasingly presents customers with a familiar question:
Add a tip?
10%. 15%. 20%. Other.
Suddenly a custom that once depended upon local social convention can be embedded in software.
And the psychology is powerful.
Pressing No Tip while another human being stands beside the machine feels quite different from simply paying the price printed on the menu.
Tourism complicates matters further.
Americans arrive in Paris accustomed to leaving 20 percent and may continue doing so because it feels uncomfortable not to. If enough tourists behave this way, businesses in heavily visited areas have an obvious incentive to encourage the practice.
And so, something interesting happens.
The visitors begin changing the culture they have come to experience.
A voluntary pourboire gradually begins to resemble an expectation.
What Does Pourboire Really Mean?
Which brings us back to that delightful French word.
Pourboire.
Something for a drink. Not a wage. Not an obligation. Not a mathematical examination conducted at the conclusion of dinner.
A small acknowledgment passed from one person to another.
There is something rather civilized about that.
Neither system is perfect. French hospitality is certainly not uniformly wonderful, just as American friendliness is not necessarily artificial. Both systems are products of complicated histories involving wages, labor laws, taxation, tourism and social expectations.
But they embody subtly different ideas.
In the American model, the customer often participates directly in determining the worker’s compensation.
In the traditional French model, compensation is principally the responsibility of the employer, while the customer retains the privilege of expressing additional appreciation.
And perhaps additional is the most important word in the entire discussion.
A Few Euros on the Table
A waiter brings a particularly good bottle of wine. A café owner tolerates your terrible French with a smile. Someone recommends a dish you would never have ordered, and it becomes the meal you remember from the entire trip.
Or perhaps your waiter is exceptionally efficient, utterly professional and magnificently brusque.
Chop chop.
You pay the bill. And then, perhaps, you leave a couple of euros on the table.
Not because a screen instructed you to. Not because 20 percent was automatically highlighted. Not because you are calculating somebody’s hourly income.
Simply because another human being contributed something to your evening.
Pourboire.
Have a drink on me.
And perhaps that is what a tip was always supposed to be.
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