Their Hollandaise is made from powder, so I gave up on it. It takes a lot for me to give up on Eggs Benedict. I won’t give up on the diner itself, though, because of the muffins. They serve terrific muffins and coffee in heavy white mugs.
There is a rotation of muffin flavors, sometimes peach pecan, sometimes cranberry orange, sometimes vanilla raspberry, but always blueberry, always chocolate chip. I order an easy fried egg and two strips of bacon. Then the muffin, which steams when I pull off the paper cup, works well in two parts: Smear the soft half with butter, and that’s the appetizer. Save the sugary streusel top, and that’s dessert. The muffin tops are the best part, of course. They are lavish and sweet, spilling over the sides. The muffin tops are generous.
I had a waitress there once whom I never saw at that diner again. Even before she took my order, she mentioned she was going through a hard time. I tend to stay at least two hours at places like that, and every time she came to my table, she mentioned some sad-something-else. She said all of this: Her house needed repair. Her car was choking through its last days. She needed medical tests and didn’t have insurance. Her husband left her. Yesterday. Her baby was in the NICU, and they weren’t sure he would make it. In fact, she would be up at the hospital right now, but she had to work …
Ok, that’s OSTF.
I had a friend in high school who said “one step too far” so often that he abbreviated it to OSTF. Everyone who knew him knew exactly what he meant when he rattled off those letters, and I have been saying it ever since. This brilliant abbreviation was a decade before text language. Before LOL and BRB and all that, which has gone OSTF, but that’s another blog post.
I didn’t want to believe the waitress was lying about some or all of her story, but I knew she probably was. She wanted me to leave her a big tip. Which made me want to leave her nothing. I’m that awesome. To top off her desperate tale, like the crowning crumbles on a muffin, she said, “Yeah, it is hard right now, but I know God will provide … sooomehow.” (Sideways look at me.)
I smiled, but it probably looked more like I had just smelled something bad. That skunk smile that really isn’t a smile at all.
However, it was a Friday, and I have a thing about Fridays. I try remember to give a big tip on Fridays. Fridays are the hardest days to work in food service. The tables are full, and the guests are eager. Customers often forget to say please or thank you. They have been waiting for the weekend and they forget someone is still waiting on them. They are so excited to leave work that they forget someone is still at work. I think we should be good to food servers on any day of the week, but Fridays are supposed to be fun, so if you are going do it only once a week, then please be good on a Friday. (Oh, and on a Sunday, because Christians have an awful reputation for skimpy tips. Awful. We need to turn that around.)
Long ago, I christened every future Friday BIG TIP Friday, which makes the best day of the week even better. It’s like I have a fun secret I’m waiting to share. When I order from the menu, I think about the tip. It is BIG TIP Friday, so do I really want a Coke, or do I want to drink water and add $3 more to the tip? Do I really want a mighty steak tonight when I could order a simple hamburger instead? There is an $8 difference. Do I really want the dessert, or do I want to tip $7 more? I order in favor of the waitstaff on Fridays. (And maybe in favor of my waistline, when it comes down to it.)
That is why I looked at my breakfast bill for $5.78 on that Friday morning and struggled with what to do. I was just about to give her a big tip, but then she asked for it. I second-guessed the gift so much because I didn’t want her to think her tear-jerker tactic was successful. I didn’t want to let her think I’d believed a word of it. I didn’t want to look like a sucker.
But then I thought about the muffin tops. They are big and bountiful because that’s just what they are, and it has nothing to do with who ordered them. They don’t change their nature based on the customer and what he did or didn’t do. They aren’t generous one minute, scant the next. They are the way they are because of the way the baker made them. The same should go for me. God made me in His image, and He is lavish. He doesn’t mind when we ask Him for a gift. He doesn’t say, “I was just about to give you success with your book, Nika, but then you asked for it, so forget it. And forget the strong-hearted husband, and forget paying off the student loans, and forget changing that quick envy, and forget healing your kidneys, and forget fixing the pool. Forget all those other things, too. Every time you come to my table, you mention some sad-something-else.”
No, He doesn’t wish we’d stop being so blatant. He loves it when we ask. Even when He can see through my scam, He blesses me. That’s who He is. If we are made to be like Him, then we are being our true selves when we are being generous. We don’t have to have a good reason other than that’s who we are. That’s who the Maker made us to be.
Giving doesn’t say anything about the heart of the recipient. It says everything about the heart of the giver.
In the end, I put the $5.78 on my debit card and slashed through the tip line with a ball point pen. I didn’t write her a note on the ticket. I didn’t wait to see her reaction. I pushed back my chair and packed up my journal, taking one last gulp of coffee. Then I just walked away. But before I did, took out my gas money for the week, deciding I could skip a few places I usually go.
I left the two twenties on the table, and called it grace. Goodness knows, God has given me plenty of that in my lifetime.
Lavish and sweet, spilling over the sides.