The Tipping Point
When generosity gets lost in translation
It was one of those nights that makes Italy feel like pure magic. Early May, the final cool stretch before summer. Jasmine in the air. A warm glow from windows. The faint burble from a nearby nasone fountain.
I got together with three friends from my university days who were passing through Rome ahead of a professional conference. We went to my regular osteria on the Via dei Fienili, a short walk from my apartment.
The food was, of course, wonderful, and there was plenty of it: the kitchen kept sending out un-ordered dishes. Mirko, who helped run the place, spoke limited English. So, I helped him explain how his nonna prepared coda alla vaccinara -- oxtail stew -- using dark chocolate to tame the acidity of her rustic tomatoes.
We were drinking one of my favorite wines: Montiano, an elegant Merlot from Falesco, a winery that hugs the border between Lazio and Umbria. We went through three bottles, and, as the meal was winding down, we asked for one more.
“Mi dispiace,” Mirko said -- “Sorry.” We’d drunk all the bottles of Montiano they had.
He suggested a couple of alternatives, but even he didn’t seem convinced. Then his face lit up. “Un momento,” he said, and then trotted off.
A few minutes later he returned, proudly holding another bottle of Montiano, one from an earlier vintage. We were thrilled. He wiped the dust from the bottle with his apron. It was from one of his personal cases of wine in the cellar. He’d forgotten it was there.
When we finished, Mirko placed the bill on the table near me. The dinner had come to 220 euro, but that number was crossed out and 200 was written next to it. But the last bottle of wine wasn’t included. I made eye contact with Mirko and held up the empty bottle with a questioning look. He touched his fingertips together, slowly wagging his hands up and down. “Dai,” he said -- “C’mon, seriously?”
One of the dinner guests slid the bill to his side of the table and said he’d take care of it. He walked up to the counter and started counting out 50-euro banknotes. “One, two, three, four,” he said. Then he added another and said, “And this one’s for you.”
“No, no,” Mirko said. “Is much. One, two, three, four, OK, OK. Five, no. Dai.”
I stood in the doorway and the other two were already outside. The friend who paid the bill walked past me as Mirko protested. It felt awkward. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“I just left him a little something,” the friend said. I told Mirko he should keep the change.
“Is very much, very much,” he said. He followed us out into the parking lot pinching the banknote between his thumb and index finger like an old sock.
The cab pulled up with perfect timing. My friends drove off, Mirko started closing the osteria for the night, and I walked home. I didn’t know yet that what happened would teach me an essential lesson in Italian culture.
Non-transactional
Let me get this out in the open: my default position when I eat out in Italy is not to tip. It isn’t because I don’t care, it’s because I do.
This is unrelated to class or a lack of empathy. I worked in restaurants for years, both in the kitchen and waiting tables, and I know the hard work and seriousness involved. When I eat out, I’m polite, I’m respectful, I’m thankful.
And of course, I’m not going wait cross-armed for a busy server to bring me a few coins in change after a nice meal, and I’m not opposed to leaving a folded five- or ten-euro note (occasionally more) tucked under the base of the empty wine bottle -- or better yet, handed to the server with thanks.
What I am opposed to is institutionalizing tipping. Once a tip is expected, it stops being a gesture of appreciation. It’s a service charge.
It’s difficult for me to understand how there can be debate on this topic, but there is. The most recent of many discussions I’ve seen was in The New Roman Times, in an article called “The Real Deal with Tipping in Italy.” The gist of it: “If you want to be a better traveler in Italy, you should be consistently tipping the waitstaff and other service workers.”
I could hardly disagree more.
The main argument in the post is that wages for restaurant staffers and other service personnel in Italy are lower than they should be. That much is accurate.
But there are two important contextual economic points to be made here.
First, almost everyone in Italy is underpaid: teachers, law enforcement officers, health care workers, bus drivers, technicians, civil servants, salesclerks, interns -- not to mention all the restaurant staff who aren’t waiting on tables. We can’t tip them all.
And second, comparing wages in Italy to those in the U.S or many other parts of the world is a fool’s errand without including universal health care and education, subsidized public transport, job security, paid parental leave, and a month or more of annual paid vacation.
But I think the most important point to be made isn’t economic, it’s cultural.
The morning after the spectacular dinner I described above, I saw Mirko in our neighborhood coffee bar and by our second coffees -- mine macchiato, his corretto, my treat -- I understood he’d been put off by how things ended.
If he’d wanted to end the evening with more money in his pocket, Mirko didn’t have to give us a discount. He could have charged us the extra 50 for the last bottle of wine: we would have hardly noticed. But what he wanted was for us to have an extraordinary experience -- and we did. But by Italy’s standards, that went unacknowledged.
My friends walked out the door, letting a generous 25-percent tip do the talking for them. But an enthusiastic handshake, sincere compliments on the meal, and a heartfelt thanks would have meant much more.
Post-scriptum:
It’s not just tipping. I’ll probably write about this in more depth in the future but the short version is this: over many years, I’ve watched in dismay as the U.S., my country of birth, and Italy, my adopted home, have gradually imported each other’s worst traits.
In the U.S., politics is growing as fractured and dysfunctional as Italy’s -- progressively corrupt, polarized, and paralyzed. Increasingly cynical Americans are losing faith in their institutions, and birthrates are falling. Couldn’t Americans have taken a cue from Italians’ sense of style, their reverence for beauty, their deep-rooted family bonds, their love of good food and shared meals, their zest for life and culture?
Meanwhile, Italy, rather than drawing on American economic efficiency, dynamism, innovation, civic pride, and the country’s legacy of social mobility -- has leaned into the least virtuous aspects of U.S. culture: consumerism, chronic stress, ultra-processed foods. Obesity is rising. More Italians are working multiple jobs just to stay afloat.
I’m dismayed because -- as a historical look at tipping in the U.S. shows us -- once these trends gain momentum they are nearly impossible to reverse. We’re losing what makes us us and not noticing the cost.
Relationships and the magical meal like you describe are one of the true gifts of living in Italy. They are also products of time, something an average American visitor may not have.
Just like I am not terribly worried about the Starbucks near the Rialto bridge and the brand new 5 Guys in the Venice train station changing the neighborhood bar and trattoria culture for locals, I am confident that Italian culture is strong enough to withstand American visitors leaving an American style tip.
Interesting story. I've never had any waiter turn down a tip, though. I never thought of excessive tipping in Italy could institutionalize it instead of making it a special gesture. Makes sense. I'm like you. I am really low maintenance in restaurants. My father set an example of what octave of screaming could send a college-aged waitress into tears. I'm very respectful. My respect also extends to tipping. If I have the cash, I'll tip 10 percent and give it personally to the waiter with a Vegas handshake, tucked into my palm. I also tip because I think wait service in Rome is the best in the world. Why? They leave you alone. I once dated a woman whose daughter worked at one of those U.S. chain restaurants you see in every suburb. She said in training, she was told by the time the customer sits and the time he leaves, you must have at least 18 contacts with him/her. Eighteen? That's one refilled Coke away from a stalking charge. Roman waiters only come over when you need them. I appreciate that, and I show my appreciation with a little pocket money.