Tipping in Turkey

Certain things that are second nature at home can be a minefield abroad. Etiquette in all of its various forms is especially tricky. Despite living in Turkey for a number of years, I am still (shamefully) not 100% sure of all the life events and announcements that warrant a box of chocolates to be shared at work, nor have I mastered each of the distinctive phrases that should be uttered in response to such good news. Mostly I smile and throw in a lot of tebriklers, hoping that the gigantic grin plastered on my face adequately expresses my sentiment.

But one of the hardest things to figure out is tipping. Oh, tipping. Where to start? As an American, tipping is in my blood. 20% added to almost every restaurant bill, an extra dollar for each drink ordered at the bar. While I think the policy towards servers in the States is extremely problematic (and a topic that certainly warrants a much longer article), I acquiesce for the sake of decency. To withhold tips as a form of protest seems callous.

This system, however, gets completely thrown out the window in just about every other country, where servers actually earn a living wage. In England, barmen have given me looks of utter confusion as I try to give them back the change they just gave me (surely adding to their disorientation is the gigantic grin plastered on my face, clearly my go-to coping mechanism for awkward encounters). There, tipping is decidedly not a thing.

But what about Istanbul, huh? Where does our fair city sit on the tipping spectrum? I thought I had a general idea, but now I’m not so sure.

Last month I found myself in Sultanahmet, meeting an old classmate from middle school for drinks. I’ve had a number of these chance encounters with people from my past and friends of friends who happen to visit Istanbul and want to (re)connect; I find the drinks and dinners that ensue to be an unexpectedly fun perk of my life as an expat. Yet this evening had the added bonus of dining in Sultanahmet, land of breathtaking monuments and bland food.

We ended up on the terrace of a restaurant with spectacular views of Aya Sofya and waiters ready to dazzle. And by dazzle, I mean lots of loud, off-hand remarks as they zoomed by your table and, no joke, even song and dance at one point. Having a Turkish speaker among us meant that our table was spared their most overt charms. But there was still prodding to order the more expensive meal and some attempts at diversion in the hopes that we might not realize that they gave us fish fingers instead of the fish and chips that was ordered.

While it certainly wasn’t my favorite restaurant, I recognize the tourist hustle and (begrudgingly) accept that it’s part and parcel of the tourist industry in most vacation spots. Plus, it was all worth it to gaze up at the Aya Sofya, which was glowing like a harvest moon on the rise. But my empathy, mingled with the contentment that comes with a friendly conversation and proximity to Ottoman monuments, was quickly extinguished as we bundled up and made our way to the door.

Did you pay the extra 15%? one of the waiters asked in Turkish. Confused, I asked if there was a cover charge that we forgot to pay. He shook his head, no just an extra tip (bahşiş) that everyone pays, he said. I stared at him for a minute, hardly believing what he was blatantly asking for and giving him the chance to backtrack. He stood there resolutely.

At this point, I could have done a number of things, including paying the tip or walking out without uttering a word. Instead, I decided to employ a tactic I picked up from observing my fellow banking customers at Garanti – the raised voice tinged with incredulity. Just like for those customers at the bank, it worked quickly and effectively. I told the waiter that not only did they provide us with poor service – bringing us the wrong food, trying to push us out as quickly as possible – but that if tipping is mandatory, it should be on the bill. He turned away and nodded.

We left, and I felt both proud and agitated, but ultimately dispirited that the night had ended so poorly. My guest, who had been watching with amusement and surprise, chimed in to say that their tour guide had been advising them to tip everyone 15%, for everything. Even the simit sellers on the street.

This got me thinking about tipping in Turkey and my approach to it. Despite the above evidence to the contrary, I generally leave something after a meal in a restaurant, although it is often 10% or less. This changes if they have a cover (I give less, if anything at all) or if I’ve had a great meal with one too many drinks (then I become a generous tipper with poor math skills, which equates to an extra large tip). I have forgone a tip, though, if the service is especially terrible or the meal unbelievably overpriced. I usually round up a lira or two in cabs, and leave good tips for the bartenders at my local haunts. However, 15% for everyone, as some tourists are apparently instructed, seems over the top for everyday life.

I find that the places where I want to tip the most, the hole in the wall that puts out the best çiğ köfte in town or the ev yemekleri place where I have my lunch each day, are often the places where it seems the most out of place. So I make do with as much praise as I can (appropriately) give and, most importantly, my continued business.

All this ambiguity makes me wonder – how do you, dear readers, go about tipping in Turkey?