Two nations divided by tips

Day 1
Oct. 13
London

I'm hanging out in Filthy McNasty's Whiskey Bar. It's a bohemian little joint teeming with a good mix of local working class, artistic types and students in Islington. It's tiny and dim with a nice big wood bar. Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Pogues and other rock posters pass as decor. Apparently not only did the Libertines used to hang out here but Pete and Carl worked behind the bar. The bartender also let me know they allegedly played a gig there from behind the bar. Clearly this is my kind of place.

Despite all this I can't quite enjoy myself. Apparently you can still smoke in London's bars. You don't realise how awful this is as a non-smoker till you've become accustomed to breathing clean air while enjoying a drink. I remembered going back to Toronto after Ottawa had banned smoking in bars and restaurants and after a night out I would come home and be disgusted that my clothes, skin and even hair reeked of cigarette smoke. I've got no problem with people smoking, but not in an enclosed place where the public convenes 'cause that encroaches upon my right to breath clean air. The point where you encroach upon the rights of others is the point where you begin losing personal freedoms and privileges.

My second issue tonight is with the bartender. I asked for a double of a 12-year-old special reserve Glenfiddich, neat.

"Would you like that with ice?" he responds.

I couldn't believe it. Maybe he didn't hear the neat part but this is a whiskey bar. Clearly youi'd expect staff to have some degree of expertise on product. I proceed to give him a bit of a scolding along the lines of 'you just don't put that kind of Scotch on ice under any circumstances'. It turns out it's his second shift so I give him a break, but he does claim some people actually order that with ice—not if it was my bar.

I give him the extra 50 pence left over after the drink order.

"Bless you my son", he say.

I look around. Nobody's sneezed.

I clue in.

"Oh, do you mean to tell me that people don't tip bartenders here?"

"Well it's consider polite to tip, but most people don't."

"It's pretty much expected back home in Canada. How much do you make?"

"Four pound twenty-five."

"Is that minimum wage?"

He nods.

"Generally, tipping is expected to help supplement bartenders' wages so they can make a decent living."

"Yes, but bartending is considered more of a respected profession in North America."

I stifle laughter.

"Here most bartenders are just kids trying to pay for school."

"It's the same back home in Toronto"

"Yes but you have to take courses in North America to be a bartender. Here you just come up to the owner and say 'I want to be a bartender'. If you pass a health and safety course the job is your's".

Now I'm not sure if the situation on both sides of the Atlantic is exactly as he says, but it definitely hits me that I'm quite far from North America. Excellent, perspective on differences and similarities in cultures exactly what I hoped to gain from this trip.

Later on that evening I get to experience the traditional last call bell; a tactful and understated hint by the boss for the bartender to quit chatting with me and serve the customers*; a few bar sing-alongs; and some people begging for drinks after last call only to be turned down (but not without the bartender asking the boss first)—don't worry they were given plastic cups so they could drink their own booze off premises.

Man this is gonna be fun but they really gotta do something about the smoking—apparently they are

*It was really busy despite it being far from packed. The dishwasher was going constantly 'cause as another bartender pointed out to me there may not be a lot of people here but they're all definitely drinkers.