It all started with a dinner invitation I didn’t know I couldn’t afford.

As your typical Igbo guy newly settling into Florida, I had long heard of the infamous American tipping culture—a capitalist romance between customers and service workers where one party does all the work, and the other is guilted into subsidizing their paycheck. But I had never truly experienced it in its full, unholy glory.

That is, until my first visit to Emperor’s Prime, Orlando’s most illustrious steakhouse, where the price of a filet mignon could finance a small wedding back home.

Seated at our dimly lit, mahogany-clad table were my three friends, each from different walks of life but united in their love for a good meal and poor financial decisions.

• Javier—Hispanic-American, lover of fine dining and even finer women, the kind of man who’d rather overdraft his account than admit he couldn’t afford something.
• Malik—Caribbean (Jamaican, specifically), the only one at the table who believed every problem in life could be solved with either reggae or rum. If you asked him about inflation, he’d tell you to “jus’ cool, star.”
• Chad—A native-born, all-American Caucasian man who had grown up in tipping culture the way I had grown up in Egusi soup and fuel scarcity. He didn’t just accept tipping; he believed in it, like an economic religion.
• And me, Chidi—the Nigerian immigrant, still recovering from the shock of paying $7 for a bottle of water at Disney World last weekend.

The evening began with the kind of charm offensive only American waitstaff can deliver.

“Good evening, gentlemen! My name is Sophia, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” said our waitress, her voice smoother than the A5 Wagyu I later realized I could not afford.

I immediately recognized the hustle. This was a seduction. Not of the romantic variety, but of the economic kind. She was about to woo us into financial recklessness.

“You all look amazing tonight,” she added, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and smiling in a way that made Chad visibly blush.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Malik replied, his Jamaican accent thickening in self-defense.

Javier leaned back. “Tell me, Sophia, what’s the most expensive thing on this menu?”

“The Emperor’s Cut—42 ounces of premium Wagyu, aged for 60 days, cooked to perfection, and served with gold flakes.”

I nearly choked on my tap water.

Gold flakes? Was I in a restaurant or a jewelry store?

“We’ll take two,” Javier declared.

I watched my financial future evaporate.

When the steaks arrived, I had to admit—I understood why people made bad decisions for food. The meat sat before me like a masterpiece, glistening under the dim restaurant lights, each slice so tender it barely needed a knife. The first bite?

Oh. My. God.

It was butter made of beef. It melted in my mouth, rich and luxurious, with the kind of umami depth that made me momentarily reconsider my resentment for American capitalism. The marbling was a revelation—like the beef had spent its entire life being massaged by Japanese monks.

I looked up at Malik, who was chewing slowly, eyes closed. “This steak is so good,” he muttered, “I feel like I should apologize to every cow I ever ate before this.”

Javier wiped his mouth with exaggerated drama. “Gentlemen, this is not just dinner. This is an experience.”

Chad, sipping his Cabernet Sauvignon, nodded. “See, this is why I always say, you gotta spend money on what matters.”

I swallowed another bite and sighed. “If food is this good, why is it so expensive?”

Chad shrugged. “High quality, imported Wagyu, aged to perfection, raised with care. You get what you pay for.”

I frowned. “And yet, somehow, I feel like I’m paying for more than what I got.”

A shadow loomed over our table.

“How is everything, gentlemen?” Sophia purred, her blue eyes twinkling with the glow of a soon-to-be 20% tip.

“Fantastic,” Javier declared.

“Absolutely lovely,” Malik admitted.

“Life-changing,” Chad added.

I, however, was still skeptical. “Sophia, be honest with me,” I said. “If I take this plate home and add it to my resumé, do you think it will help my job prospects?”

She laughed—just the right amount, just the right level of flirtation. A masterclass in tip-maximization tactics.

The check arrived, and so did my nightmare.

$640.

I coughed violently. “What are we talking, Naira or Dollars?”

Chad laughed. “Oh, come on, man, you knew what you were getting into.”

I most certainly did not.

But the real tragedy was yet to come. Because then, Chad pulled out his phone and began doing something utterly insane.

“Alright, 20% tip… that’s about $128,” he muttered.

“Ehn?!” My Nigerian soul left my body.

“128 dollars?! For what?! She brought the food! The food that is already overpriced! Are we buying her a house?!”

Javier chuckled. “Chidi, tipping is part of the culture, man. Servers don’t make enough from wages alone.”

I threw up my hands. “Then who sent them?! Who sent them to take this job?”

Malik patted my shoulder. “Bredren, relax. Just think of it as charity.”

I scoffed. “I already give to charity, and at least the orphanages send me ‘God bless you’ texts! Where is my receipt of gratitude?!”

Chad, ever the patriot, explained it to me like I was a lost puppy.

“In America, tipping isn’t optional. It’s expected. If you don’t tip, they’ll think you’re rude.”

I folded my arms. “In Nigeria, if you demand extra money for doing your job, we will pray for you. And not the good kind of prayer.”

“But wait,” I continued. “Shouldn’t paying workers be the responsibility of the employer, not the customer? This is the only industry where people act like paying wages is a group project!”

Chad sighed. “Yeah, but that’s just how it works. Without tips, they make less than minimum wage.”

I shook my head. “So if I refuse to tip, they’ll just… starve?”

Javier nodded solemnly.

“Ah. So this is not tipping. This is ransom.”

The Aftermath

As we walked out, I looked at my now-empty wallet and sighed.

“How do you people survive here?”

Javier smirked. “We don’t. That’s why we have credit cards.”

Chad patted my back. “You’ll get used to it, buddy.”

Malik laughed. “Or you’ll just eat at home more.”

I shook my head. “From now on, I only eat where the price includes the food and the cost of human kindness.”

We all laughed. But deep down, I knew the truth.

Tipping culture in America is not a system.

It’s a relationship.

And in this relationship, I had just been finessed.