Sam Hodgson for The New York Times
The first time I walked into a crowded bar I thought I had to work for a drink. Short, skinny and not particularly loud, I jockeyed for a spot. I hovered near the bar hatch and leaned over the counter, anything for a glance. One friend wanted a whiskey. Neat or on the rocks? Both. Another wanted an Old-Fashioned, which meant nothing to me. I ordered two. Reaching for my wallet, I realized I had no idea what to tip. I was a terrible patron.