I want to throw my two cents, or more appropriately, the suggested 20 percent, into the ever-growing tip debate.

Most folks agree that waitstaff should be tipped. A good percentage will tip our hairstylists, rideshare drivers and food delivery people. Generally we want to show our appreciation and leave tips where they’re traditionally expected.

But we are understandably hesitant when it comes to tipping for things like retail purchases or self-serve shops. We end up leaving tips anyway, partially to avoid the awkwardness and the guilt of saying no in front of the customer service worker.

My tipping point came a few weeks back in Florida at a very small eatery. I went in after seeing a posting on their website for “Fresh New York Style Bagels.” I was hooked.

I asked the woman at the register, “Do you have everything and cinnamon raisin and can I get them to go?”

“Sure, you want them toasted or anything on them?

“No, just two each to go. Thanks.”

She turns around, takes a step to her right, unties a bag with the logo from another market and pulls out two everything bagels. From a similar bag she takes out two cinnamon raisin, steps to her left, turns around, says, “that’ll be eleven sixty-six” and rotates the touch screen to me.

Rest assured these were not Monticello Bagel Bakery bagels.

Too stunned to tell her to forget it, I insert a debit card into the touch screen tablet which asks me if I want to tip 18, 20, 25 or 30 percent.

Instead I touch the “no tip” option, say thank you and take my bag of faux bagels. I don’t think  she could see the option I selected but yet I felt guilty. Why?

She didn’t walk into the kitchen and serve me bagels. Didn’t cut it, toast it or schmear it. She simply turned around, transferred four dough with holes from one bag to another and handed it to me. She did her job for which I thanked and paid her. Isn’t that enough?

It seems everywhere you go, you’re asked to chip in a little something extra, even for things that weren’t tipped services just a few years ago. I’m happy to tip the guys at the car wash and the restaurant server. I draw the line at the quick mart cashier who talks on their cell phone while I hand them two dollars for water. No, I will not be dropping my spare coins into the Styrofoam cup that’s taped to the countertop.

I know the value of tips in minimum wage jobs.

During my last years in high school and throughout college, I was among the thousands of men and women who over the decades waited and bussed tables in the Catskills to offset the cost of tuition. Good money. Hard money. But not guaranteed money.

I don’t know what the hotels were legally forced to pay per hour in those days. But I do know that after all the federal and state deductions and room and board (whether we stayed or ate on grounds), I was lucky to break even. Some weeks I thought I’d have to pay for the privilege of working there.

We survived on tips.

On checkout days, usually Sunday after lunch, the dining room staff would find a corner to tear open our yellow tip envelopes. You never knew. The cool young couple you figured would tip big gave you less. The grumpy older Borscht Belt pair exceeded expectations. And then you had some who just stiffed you. I know that hurts.

I’ll tip when appropriate. Maybe next time I’ll leave my own suggested tip for that eatery in Florida: “These ain’t New York bagels!”

Barry Lewis is a longtime journalist and author who lives with his wife Bonnie in the Town of Neversink. He can be reached at      barrylewisscdemocrat@gmail.com.