I had a friend from the USA visit me in Norway. On her first day here, we went out to a restaurant. We got entrees, dinner, dessert, and drinks. I had already told my friend I would pay.

We got the bill and both looked at it. The waiter went to go get the terminal so that I could pay with my credit card. How it worked at that restaurant was that you had to input the total amount to pay. It is not common to tip here. You might round up, but it’s definitely not expected to tip. I distinctly remember that our total was 1,871 NOK (~190 USD), so I figured I might as well just round up to 1,900 NOK (~192 USD).

When my friend saw that I only rounded up to 1,900 NOK, she immediately took the terminal from me.

Friend: “You can’t tip that little! What’s wrong with you? The waiters depend on tips!”

I mean, it’s not the best-paying job, but in which country is it? I just looked at her and said:

Me: “No.”

The waiter was right there and shot in:

Waitress: “We actually don’t. Most people I serve round up to the nearest five or ten, so she was actually quite generous.”

The strange thing is that I had even told her beforehand that tipping isn’t expected here. She told me later that she remembered that but didn’t believe it as I wasn’t a waitress myself.

My boyfriend takes me to a restaurant for my birthday. It’s a very expensive restaurant but still casual clothing. My boyfriend always dreamed of taking his love there, so he has saved up for it. I have no fashion sense, and the fanciest outfit my boyfriend has is a nice sweater and good jeans. When we enter the restaurant, we notice people staring. It’s not a large restaurant, so it’s easy to see we are out of place. The staff treats us nicely, but we do not feel welcome.

After the appetizer, we get on to the main course. My boyfriend asks for fish and I ask for meat. We get what we ordered and start eating. Halfway through the meal, the waiter comes by and asks if everything is all right.

Me: “Yes, the food is amazing.”

The waiter turns to my boyfriend.

Waiter: “How is your meal, sir?”

My boyfriend doesn’t answer. He just keeps on staring at his plate, carefully chewing. He does nod a bit, so we assume he doesn’t want to talk with his mouth full.

Me: “He loves it, as well.”

The waiter leaves. Ten minutes later:

Boyfriend: “This fish is amazing! I mean, delicious! Here, taste it! This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted! We have to let them know that; that chef is amazing!”

Me: “Well, the waiter already knows; surely he told the chef.”

Boyfriend: “The waiter? When did you talk to him?”

Me: “Eh, about ten minutes ago? He visited our table?”

Boyfriend: “No, he didn’t… Did he?”

Me: “He was standing right next to you. He asked you if everything was all right?”

Boyfriend: “No… When… You mean…?”

Me: “You didn’t notice the waiter standing next to you?!”

Boyfriend: “You tasted this fish! It is pure heaven! I didn’t notice anything!”

When the waiter passed by again, my boyfriend profusely apologised for not noticing the waiter and unintentionally ignoring him. The waiter promised to tell the chef his dish was so good that my boyfriend forgot about the world for a moment. After that, the staff was a lot more chill with us (I guess the ice broke) and we had a great time.

We had a waitress run into the kitchen BAWLING her eyes out. It took us a few minutes to find out what had happened. Apparently, a customer kept telling his son what he wanted, and the son would tell this waitress. When pressed by the waitress why he would not speak to her directly, he told his son to tell her…

Customer: “I don’t talk to [racial slur]s.”

Two cooks and I chased the f***er out of the place. We wanted to roll him, but he was pretty quick.

I work in a restaurant, and one Sunday morning, we are slammed. I have a table of twelve that is running me into the ground, a table of four, one of three, maybe one other small party, and then my new party of sixteen.

The party of twelve has received everything. Entrees and refills are down. They’re chillin’ and no longer the priority.

I greet the sixteen-top and they want to put in EVERYTHING at once. They’re regulars and tip 30% every time, so I KNOW they’re worth any extra effort. The whole order takes maybe five or ten minutes max. We have a handheld point-of-sales system, so orders take no time. On my way to the back to grab their drinks, I stop by my twelve-top to ask for refills. Just a water.

Well, I forget the d*** water, and of course, gathering drinks for sixteen takes a few minutes, so when I return, the woman at my twelve-top who asked for the water is FURIOUS.

Woman: “You’re not moving fast enough! Your service is unacceptable!”

This word is the final straw for me. She has been a b**** the whole time, mind you, and even grabbed my attention twice by actually entering the kitchen.

Now, I don’t keep my phone on me at work, I don’t take breaks, and I rarely sit during my twelve-plus-hour days. I work hard and I know it. I am not going to let this comment slide.

Me: *Calmly* “You know, we’re very busy, and I’m one person. I have other tables to serve, and frankly, accommodating you has been difficult since you decided to change your order four separate times. I’m not taking the fall on your bad experience.”

My dignity is worth more than whatever s***ty tip you think I need so badly that I’ll just let you talk to me like an animal.

I dropped checks, offered no boxes, and treated the table like lava until they left.

In the early 1990s, I was a waiter at [Restaurant Chain]. On Sundays, I worked all three shifts: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sunday nights were particularly brutal; it was our busiest night, yet we were always undermanned due to staff not showing up, and I was tired from a long day.

Every Sunday night, this large church group would come in — about twenty-plus people. They would come in at the tail end of the dinner shift, just as I was about to pull myself out of the weeds, and they would ask for me to be their waiter. Then, if they couldn’t get five tables near each other, they would spread out all over the restaurant into other waiters’ zones but still insist on me being their server. They would act disappointed (and in some cases annoyed) that I didn’t remember their drink preferences from previous weeks. They would place their beverage and food orders and then get up and change tables. They weren’t trying to mess with me, mind you; they were just being sociable with each other.

Then, they would get fussy with their orders. “This or that was wrong,” “This is undercooked,” “I didn’t think it would look like that, so can I order something else?” etc. It was hard for me to tell whether I had gotten an order wrong or if maybe I had the right order for the wrong guy because they wouldn’t stay in the same seat throughout the experience. It went on and on. They were, per capita, the neediest customers I had to deal with all week, and there were twenty of them all at once. Every. F******. Sunday.

Don’t even get me started on the cooks who couldn’t get the orders right. Let’s just say that [Restaurant Chain] didn’t exactly draw the best and the brightest, and only the dumbest ones showed up Sunday nights. I was too poor not to.

So, here’s the kicker: religious pamphlets. That’s what I got tipped every week, plus about $5 in change.