Biting the hands that feed you.

When "consumer protection" hurts workers.

Hi, friends.

This week’s newsletter is a long one that I’ll hope you read carefully and completely. In case you can’t, I’m putting the thing I need you to know here: Starting today, hospitality is no longer included at Dear Annie or Rebel Rebel, so we’ll be asking you to tip your bartenders. The industry standard is 20%, and we hope you’ll compensate our teams fairly for their labor.

After 5 years of a no-tipping model, why is this happening?

On September 2, Massachusetts quietly reshaped how restaurants can compensate their employees—no legislative process, no votes. In the name of protecting diners from so-called “junk fees,” the state withdrew our ability to use hospitality administration fees—a model many independent bars and restaurants (including mine) have relied on to pay staff more equitably.

At first glance, this might seem like a win for consumers. But in practice, the new policy guidance strips restaurants of one of the only tools we’ve had to close the yawning pay gap between front-of-house (tipped servers and bartenders) and back-of-house (cooks, dishwashers, prep staff). It recommits to a system rooted in racism, and one that exposes us to harassment of all kinds. And it leaves workers—and the industry—worse off.

Equity in a broken system.

Tips, by law, flow only to front-of-house. That means the cooks who make your meal, the dishwashers who make it possible to serve you safely, and the prep staff who make the service run smoothly are locked out of the most significant source of income in a restaurant. While restaurants pay all their workers industry standard wages (the narrative that back-of-house workers don’t make enough money because restaurant owners don’t want to pay them is absurd; purposefully underpaying employees is the best way to have very bad employees, or no employees at all), the room for wage increases in our current landscape is as slim as our profit margins, which are anywhere between 0-1% for independent restaurants. Most restaurants I know zero out their bank accounts with every payroll submission.

Hospitality administration fees were one of the few legal, transparent ways we could direct extra cash into the hands of our back-of-house teams. In many restaurants, those fees translated into thousands of additional dollars per year for our most vulnerable team members and the people least able to absorb rising costs of living.

By removing this mechanism, the state has effectively deepened the structural inequities in our pay system.

Why “just raise your prices” isn’t a real solution.

Critics often suggest a simple alternative: “If you want to pay staff more, just raise menu prices.” On paper, that sounds tidy. In practice, it’s unworkable.

• Transparency matters. On a fundamental level, clearly stated administrative fee tells guests—and team members—exactly where that money is going. Quietly hiking the price of every dish makes it invisible, stripping away the honesty and accountability we’ve tried to build with our guests, and it removes the legal liability to distribute collected funds to the team members we’re stating will receive the benefits of the fees. On a philosophical level, this shift hides the literal value of our industry’s labor, an issue we battle with in our dining rooms every night.

• Margins matter. Raising prices risks alienating diners in an already competitive market, especially for neighborhood restaurants sourcing locally (more on that below). A $15 glass of wine quickly becomes $18 or $20; a $30 entrée pushes toward $40. For many guests, that crosses a psychological threshold that drives them to chains, meal kits, or take-out instead.

• Equity matters. Across-the-board price increases don’t guarantee that money reaches the lowest-paid staff. A fee dedicated to wages does.

• Coordination matters. If every restaurant raised prices simultaneously, the playing field would be level. But in a fragmented, cutthroat market, no such coordination exists. The restaurants that act first are often punished, losing customers and shutting for good.

The rising cost of doing the right thing

The suggestion that restaurants should “just raise prices” ignores another harsh reality: the cost of food itself is rising steeply. For those of us sourcing from local farms, fisheries, and sustainable producers—the ones who grow and harvest in ways that respect people, animals, and ecosystems—our costs are already significantly higher than commodity food.

Every season brings new volatility: fuel surcharges on delivery, droughts and floods that affect yields, inflation in staples like dairy and grains. Restaurants committed to buying from small New England farms aren’t looking to squeeze pennies out of industrialized supply chains. We’re paying farmers fairly, often at prices that are double or triple the industrial market rate.

These costs are worth it. They’re what make our food nourishing and our communities more resilient. But they leave even less room to maneuver when wages go up and revenue streams narrow.

The Neighborhood Squeeze.

This policy won’t hurt luxury dining rooms charging $45 entrées or national chains offering bulk-priced chicken fingers. The burden falls hardest on mid-tier, neighborhood restaurants—the places trying to serve excellent food at accessible prices.

We’re not trying to compete with fast-food combo meals, and we’re not catering to expense-account fine dining. We’re the middle ground: the casual wine bar, the bistro, the local spot where neighbors gather and families celebrate. These are the businesses most sensitive to small changes in cost structure.

Strip away the ability to use administrative fees, and you don’t just threaten our margins—you threaten the very existence of the neighborhood restaurant as a category.

Unintended consequences.

Massachusetts’ decision was meant to shield diners from confusion at the bottom of their bill. But the unintended consequences are serious:

• Workers lose thousands in supplemental income.

• Restaurants lose one of their few legal tools for equity.

• Guests lose transparency about how their money supports fair wages.

• Neighborhood restaurants—the heart of local communities—bear the brunt.

A better path forward.

Restaurants aren’t looking for loopholes. We’re looking for lifelines. And we need policies that help us create workplaces where everyone—from dishwasher to bartender—can make a dignified living, while keeping neighborhood restaurants alive and accessible.

Massachusetts has a long history of progressive labor policy. But this decision puts us behind. In a time when restaurants are still reeling from the pandemic, battling inflation, and fighting to retain staff, we should be empowering them to experiment with models that sustain workers—not banning them.

Equity in restaurants isn’t just a moral issue. It’s an economic one. When we strip away the ability to pay people fairly, we weaken the very fabric of an industry that feeds us, employs thousands, and anchors our neighborhoods.

It’s time to stop treating hospitality like a line item, and start treating it like the essential service it is.

We’re profoundly grateful for our community, many of whom have already reached out with words of support, and we’re committed to continuing to provide spaces that challenge industry norms and provide safe, equitable workplaces for people who’ve long been excluded. While we reimagine our future together, we ask you to see us for what we are—whole people worthy of compensation, working within a system designed without us in mind.

Onward.

Lauren