America’s Tipping Problem: The Fight for Fair Wages

Gratitude or Guilt? When Tipping Feels Mandatory in a Tough Economy

I tap my card.
The cashier pretends not to see me, eyes suddenly fascinated by the napkin dispenser.
An awkward silence descends.
Here comes the screen—spinning around like the Wheel of Misfortune.

There’s the lineup of guilt percentages. The “customary” tip, but who decided what’s custom?
Am I being judged right now? Who’s behind me—someone who tips 25% religiously?
Should I just close my eyes and pin the tip on the digital donkey?

Maybe I go low. Fifteen percent, or should I just tap “$1”?
Am I cheap? But didn’t I just pay for the coffee?
Who actually gets these tips—someone in the back, the whole team, the boss?
Is this an emotional transaction or a financial burden?

The seconds drag on, tip screen staring back at me like a dare.
What if I don’t tip? Will the barista glare as she steam-milks my shame?
Will the next customer applaud my penny-pinching rebellion?

Panic-stricken, I tap something—anything! Twenty percent.
Awkward silence over. The cashier smiles, serene again.
“We’ll call your name when it’s ready.”
And I walk away, $1.35 lighter, still not sure what just happened.

Before we redefined what normal meant, my emergency tip-calculating brain cells always did the work to calculate the cost of gratitude and good service. If I was happy and satisfied, it’s a no-brainer 20%. If the server continued to address me as Roger or Rodge instead of Raj, maybe 10%? If I was having the best time of my life, it could be a whopping 25%. If the good times got me drunk, then I wouldn’t even remember what I had scribbled on until the regretful morning after. In general, restaurant tipping is easy. The measure of my satisfaction is an easy formula.

But lately, that formula feels broken. Ever since the pandemic, the news is full of inflation reports—none of them good. The Biden administration flip-flopped on the softness of the “soft landing” they predicted to keep hope alive, kept reminding us that we were not all that inflated. Still, prices soared, and my latte lifestyle took a nosedive.

A year later, here comes the Trump administration’s version of relief—a headline inflation rate hovering around 3% for much of 2025. Trump’s team touts progress, even flashing numbers like 2.7% “average inflation” from January to September, with promises that kitchen staples are getting cheaper. The White House points out that some basic grocery prices actually dropped, but the collective wallet hardly feels any lighter. Meanwhile, voters are still frustrated: years of price hikes don’t simply unwind. My cold brew still feels like a splurge, and somehow, “making lattes great again” isn’t part of the campaign just yet.

If there’s a ‘soft landing’ somewhere, it’s not showing up at my local café. Whether it’s Biden’s post-pandemic battle or Trump’s new round of tariff-fueled sticker shock, the American price tag still feels heavier than my conscience after a second fancy espresso. Politicians may celebrate slowing inflation, but for those of us doing the daily math—latte in one hand, calculator in the other—the squeeze is as real as ever.

The bitter truth, according to the experts, is that pre-pandemic prices at the grocery store aren’t coming back. A true price drop—deflation—is actually bad news for the economy. What we’re told to hope for is disinflation: prices holding steady, not dropping. In other words, those $6 lattes aren’t going anywhere—they’re here to stay.

Nowadays, the base price for a regular latte is over $6, then maybe you add in vanilla syrup, which costs you an extra dollar, and ask for oat milk, which is a dollar more. You’re now staring at an $8 drink, plus taxes and, assuming you’re doing the right thing here, at least a $1 tip.¹

Every dollar counts.

Not just for my Barista, an hourly wageworker, but also for me — the coffee-art loving customer who lives pay-check to pay-check. So when I tip my Barista for the coffee I bought, it’s generally a happy transaction. Tipping is my way to express gratitude for the service I expect or hope to receive. At times, it’s simply a friendly gesture between acquaintances. As the gratitude-giver in this relationship, I add that extra 15-20% for the warm welcome, for making me feel important, and for knowing exactly how I like my coffee — never too sweet, always in a mug, and extra hot.

But when every dollar counts, with the prices already inflated on everything from eggs to gas, this “happiness contract” needs to have some basic rules. Because it has gotten out of hand.

Photo by Dan Smedley on Unsplash

Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely no debate to why good service needs to be appreciated with extra gratitude. After all, it’s a tradition that tracks back to 17th century taverns and inns.

What grinds my gears is the math that goes into pre-defined tipping recommendations at the point-of-service checkout machines. The business owners who set it up seem to take the customer for granted.

For instance, why would the merch (sticker, cap, tee, etc.) that I picked up from the counter along with my coffee require a default 15% tip? Shouldn’t those orders be kept separate?

Why would a takeout order require a tip when it was ordered over an app or online with minimal human interaction? We are already paying for the cost of the product and the service as part of the MRP, aren’t we?

What about the audacity of the unmanned kiosk at the airport vending machine asking for tips? Not only are we allowing machines and AI to take over human jobs, we also want to tip them for it.

Needless to say, this culture of tipping in America has gone wild. What started out in the restaurant industry as a way to foster an environment built on quality of service, has been adopted widely in the food-service industry to delivery apps and anything with an app face. This has led to the culture of guilt-tipping, which is what most of us are defaulting to these days.

The tipping culture is truly unique to America—not merely a matter of custom, but an unwavering expectation etched into every meal and service transaction. Unlike in most other countries, where a modest 10–15% tip is generous and never obligatory, in the United States the act of tipping can feel more like a requirement than a reward. In the UK, much of the EU, and countless other regions, leaving a tip is seen as a courteous gesture, appreciated but never demanded. In fact, tipping in some places can even be unwelcome: in Japan, for instance, offering a tip can be considered impolite or even insulting, a gesture that disrupts the pride and professionalism built into service itself.

When I traveled to Japan in September, I was struck by the absence of tipping culture—and more importantly, by the relief it brought. There were no iPads swiveled toward me at the end of the meal, no silent or direct cues, no awkward pause while the server glanced away, waiting to see whether I would hit the “20%” button, or add a few dollars more for fear of being thought stingy. In Japan, the price listed is the price paid. The exchange—a meal for money, service for gratitude—is already balanced and complete.

Tipping in Japan is not expected, and attempts to leave a tip will almost certainly be turned down (a potentially awkward moment). In Japan, it’s thought that by dining out or drinking at a bar, you are already paying the establishment for good service.²

That stark contrast lays bare just how ingrained and transactional American tipping has become. Here, every coffee run and casual meal now ends with a digital ask for “generosity,” pushing customers to question not just their appreciation but their social standing and sense of fairness. Abroad, gratitude is reserved for moments that truly move you; in America, it sometimes feels like gratitude is demanded by default, making both customer and worker question the real meaning behind every exchange.

In my frequent travels to India, the Middle East, and Australia, I’ve never felt the sticky guilt that comes with tipping in America. In those places, a small token of thanks—some leftover change, a modest amount, or sometimes nothing at all—is simply left behind if you wish. The gesture carries no social weight, no pressure. Locals seem entirely unconcerned, and the baseline expectation is that good service is part of the job, not something to be bought in increments at the end of the meal.

There, tipping is what it was originally meant to be—a spontaneous act of gratitude, reserved for occasions when you are genuinely moved to give thanks, not a mandatory supplement to a substandard wage. In stark contrast, American tipping culture has become loaded with obligation and anxiety, fueled by digital prompts and social expectations that can feel impossible to escape. Here, it’s not uncommon to tip out of guilt rather than gratitude, caught in a system where the “choice” is more about economic survival for workers than appreciation from customers.

As the rest of the world upholds the principle that good service is a standard—not a luxury paid for one tip at a time—America’s practice leaves everyone second guessing: am I generous enough, too generous, or unintentionally shortchanging someone whose livelihood hinges on my decision? In a tough economy, the meaning of tipping here has shifted, becoming less about thanks, and more about the burden of keeping a broken system afloat.

So, what’s so unique about America?

Up next: a deep dive into America’s tipping culture, and what I learned from my Q&A with Dr. Saru Jayaraman. - a leading labor activist, author, and president of One Fair Wage, nationally recognized for her relentless crusade to end sub-minimum wages and transform America’s tipping culture into one rooted in fairness and dignity.

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