“ There are three solutions to every problem: accept it, change it, or leave it. It’s not as if anyone were going to tip him.Life is a wonderful journey for those who are ready to see it unfold and be prepared to receive the shocks and surprises that it might throw. I was still being told he was on the corner of my road when I walked through the restaurant’s door, cell phone in hand, to find the delivery boy sitting on a bench, texting. My most extreme encounter with this uniquely British form of torture was when, a few years back, I ordered from an Indian restaurant four minutes from my house as the crow flies. He “went to the wrong house.” You sit on the doorstep. “He’s outside your door! Open your door!” You open your door. They say, “He’s turning onto the corner of your road, one minute, one minute!” Five minutes pass.

They say, “He’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.” Thirty minutes pass. That must be why so many writers live here-the only other place you get food delivery like that is at MacDowell.Īnother treasurable thing about London’s delivery service is its frankly metaphysical attitude toward time (minicabs are equally creative on this front). In New York, a boy will bring a single burrito to your door. Or to inform you imperiously that they will deliver only if you spend twenty quid or more. And it is surprisingly common for London restaurants to request that you come and take away your own bloody food, thank you very much. In England, the term is “takeaway,” a subtle difference that places the onus on the eater. In New York, a restaurant makes some “takeout” food, which it fully intends to take out and deliver to someone. We are subject to enough delusions in this life without adding to them the belief that the girl with the name tag is secretly in love with us. If the choice is between the antic all-singing, all-dancing employees in New York’s Astor Place Pret a Manger and the stony-faced contempt of just about everybody behind a food counter in London (including all the Prets), I wholeheartedly opt for the latter. At best, it’s a practicality, to be enacted politely and decently by both parties, but no one should be asked to pretend that the intimate satisfaction of her existence is servicing you, the “guest,” with a shrimp sandwich wrapped in plastic. I don’t think any nation should elevate service to the status of culture. “Have a good one”-intoned with a slightly melancholy air, as if warding off the far greater likelihood of an evil “one”-is the most you tend to hear.īut I’m not going to complain about Britain’s “lack of a service culture”-it’s one of the things I cherish about the place. What they never, ever do, however, is tell me to have a nice day. Now when I’m in London I find myself tipping all kinds of people, most of whom express a sort of unfeigned amazement, even if the tip is tiny. The high-minded Brits add a lecture: food-industry workers shouldn’t need to scrabble for the scraps thrown from high table-they should be paid a decent wage (although the idea that the delivery boys of Britain are paid a decent wage is generally an untested assumption). Published in the print edition of the November 4, 2013, issue.Įvery New Yorker has heard a newly arrived British person grumble about tipping.

Take it or leave it attitude