Bread

Pane d'Amore

Interesting occurrence this morning in the local bakery. Sunday morning, another cold, gray one. I pull into one of the angled parking spaces that are impossible to use on weekdays and walk in the bakery. I visit them once every two weeks to indulge in a loaf of their expensive, but wonderfully delicious, home-made bread, either the Hearth Deli or today’s choice what they call Grandmas White Pan Bread. 

On very special occasions I will also splurge on the purchase of a croissant or a chocolate-walnut oatmeal cookie. Today I was in the store en route to the Barn where we would be doing a 100 minute bike ride while watching Free Solo. I decided to splurge on an almond croissant in addition to the Grandma’s White. 

I place the order, asking for the bread to be unsliced and in a brown paper bag, I add that it's quite OK to put the croissant in the same bag. Maybe save a penny. The counter gal flashes a toothy smile at the gesture and tells me that my two purchases have totaled exactly ten dollars. 

Yikes, I respond, moving into my tired routine of complaining about inflation, adding flirtatiously that I might have to get a real job if I expect to do this again next Sunday. 

Unexpectedly, she says she knows exactly what I mean, as her situation is similar. As she is painstakingly folding the top of my bread bag, I look down at the almost empty bean can acting as a tip jar on the counter next to the register. She sees this and makes a comment about the dramatic difference between the tipping customs of Europeans, which she admires to being, and those of Americans. 

I feel a wave of connection and dig back into my pocket to find a dollar to drop into her jar. As I am fumbling with my stash, she grabs the jar, puts one hand over the top and tells me no, a tip is not necessary, simply sharing the interaction is enough. 

I am flabbergasted, but finally relent and turn to leave wishing her farewell and good fortune. Hope to see you next week. 

I had not noticed that a woman had walked in while we were conducting our transaction and was standing directly behind me. She was evidently eavesdropping and says loudly enough for us each to hear that she agrees that the European’s have the right idea and that tipping is vile. 

I stop in my tracks. I look at the counter gal. She gives me a look dripping with compassion. The lady orders. I turn to walk back to my truck. After one step I stop, turn and address the counter gal. 

I hope you don’t consider my humble offering to be vile, as that is certainly not the way it was intended. 

No, no, not at all. I understand. 

OK.