9 things lower-middle-class do while dining out without realizing how they’re perceived

I watched a family at the farmers market last week debating whether to grab lunch at the new Thai place or go home and eat leftovers. The dad kept glancing at his phone, probably calculating. The mom said something about "we already spent enough today." The kids were bouncing between excitement and impatience.

I saw myself in that moment. Not now, but younger me. The one who treated every restaurant meal like it needed a cost-benefit analysis before the appetizers arrived.

Here's what I've learned after years of writing about decision psychology and watching my own habits shift: the way we move through restaurants reveals more about our relationship with money and belonging than we realize. Not in a shameful way. In a human way.

These patterns aren't about being cheap or unsophisticated. They're survival strategies, value systems, ways of moving through the world that made sense in one context but can send unintended signals in another.

1) Announcing the water order like it's a declaration

"We'll just have water."

I've said this. You've probably said this. It feels practical, efficient, maybe even virtuous in a world where a cocktail costs $16 and comes in a jar with a sprig of something.

But here's what servers told me when I asked: that "just" carries weight. It signals caution, sometimes apology. It frames the entire meal as budget defense before anyone's even looked at the menu.

The upper-middle-class version? They order water too. They just say it differently. "We'd like still water, thanks." No explanation. No "just." They trust that water is a perfectly reasonable choice that needs no justification.

Small shift, completely different energy.

2) Treating complimentary items like a competitive sport

Free bread. Free chips and salsa. Refillable anything.

When dining out is rare, maximizing value makes sense. I get it. I've definitely asked for a third basket of bread before our entrees arrived, mentally calculating that we're getting an extra $4 of carbs.

But restaurants design those items as appetizers, not meal replacements. When guests load up on freebies, it can read as either unfamiliarity with dining norms or as trying to fill up before the expensive stuff arrives.

Neither is wrong exactly. But it does shift how the evening feels to everyone at the table.

3) Narrating the cost of everything

"$18 for pasta? I could make this at home for $3."

"They're charging $6 for oat milk?"

"Look at these portion sizes for the price."

I grew up hearing these comparisons. My parents did the mental math out loud at every restaurant, comparing menu prices to grocery store costs like they were solving a puzzle.

The thing is, restaurants aren't just selling ingredients. They're selling prep time you didn't spend, dishes you didn't wash, an evening where someone else does the work. When you narrate costs, you're essentially announcing that you're calculating value in a way that misses the point of the exchange.

People who eat out regularly already know it costs more than cooking. They've made peace with that trade-off. Naming it repeatedly signals discomfort with the premise of restaurants themselves.

4) Camping at the table long after paying

This one I learned the embarrassing way.

A few years back, my partner and I sat at a Venice Beach cafe for almost two hours after finishing brunch. We were deep in conversation, the kind where you lose track of time. I noticed the server refilling water with slightly less enthusiasm each round. I noticed the host glancing at our table. I didn't connect the dots until a friend who waited tables explained it to me later.

Restaurants operate on table turns. That's how servers make money. When you occupy a table for 90 minutes post-check during peak hours, you're directly reducing someone's income potential.

It's not that you can't linger. It's that you need to earn the linger by ordering something else, moving to the bar, or going during off-peak times. The courtesy is in the awareness.

5) Over-customizing orders to maximize value

"Can I get the burger but substitute the fries for a salad, extra pickles on the side, dressing separate, and can we split it between two plates?"

Customization isn't bad. Dietary needs and preferences are real. But when every order becomes a negotiation, it signals either unfamiliarity with how kitchens work or an attempt to engineer a better deal than what's offered.

I've watched my grandmother do this for years. She grew up during lean times and learned to stretch every dollar. It's a survival skill that served her well. But in a restaurant context, excessive modifications can slow down service and create tension between what you ordered and what arrives.

The more confident approach? Choose something close to what you want and make one, maybe two adjustments. Trust the kitchen to do what they do well.

6) Tipping with visible calculation or commentary

"Should we tip before tax or after?"

"I tip for great service, not just because I'm supposed to."

"Is 15% still okay?"

My partner and I had a version of this conversation early in our relationship. I grew up calculating tips to the cent. She grew up rounding up and moving on. Neither approach is wrong, but the visible math and the verbal justification both signal the same thing: tipping feels like a burden rather than a built-in cost.

I'm not saying overtip when service is bad. I'm saying decide your standard beforehand (18-20% for decent service in most U.S. cities), then execute without commentary. The deliberation itself is what reads as uncomfortable.

7) Telegraphing discomfort with the setting

"I'm not used to places like this."

"Hope this isn't too fancy."

"We don't usually do this."

I said all of these at various points in my twenties. I thought I was being disarming, maybe even charming in a self-deprecating way.

What I was actually doing was asking everyone at the table to manage my anxiety about whether I belonged. Instead of relaxing into the experience, I was pre-apologizing for not being fancy enough for the furniture.

The irony is that confidence in a restaurant has nothing to do with money. It's about trusting that you have as much right to be there as anyone else. You don't need to perform familiarity. You just need to stop broadcasting discomfort.

8) Treating servers like either bosses or subordinates

Two extremes, same root.

Some diners are excessively deferential with servers, apologizing for every question, over-thanking to the point of awkwardness. Others swing the opposite way: snapping fingers, avoiding eye contact, speaking curtly as if asserting dominance.

Both signal discomfort with the restaurant hierarchy. Both miss the middle path, which is treating servers like collaborators in your evening.

Learn names if they're offered. Make eye contact. Batch your requests so you're not calling them back six times. Say please and thank you without performing gratitude.

That's it. That's the whole game.

9) Bringing outside food or improvising with condiments

I've seen people bring their own hot sauce. Pocket extra sugar packets. Even decant drinks from thermoses into restaurant cups.

It's resourceful. It's also a signal that you don't quite trust the establishment to provide what you need, or that you're trying to save money by supplementing what they offer.

If you need something specific, just ask. Most restaurants are happy to accommodate. "Could I get some hot sauce?" works a lot better than pulling a bottle from your bag.

The goal isn't to spend more. It's to operate within the system you're in rather than creating a parallel one.

Conclusion

None of this makes you a bad person. None of this means you're doing restaurants "wrong."

These are learned behaviors. Survival strategies. Ways of navigating scarcity that made perfect sense in one context.

The thing about understanding psychology is recognizing that our habits send signals whether we intend them to or not. And sometimes those signals work against what we actually want: to feel comfortable, to enjoy the meal, to belong in the space we're occupying.

You don't need more money to shift these patterns. You need awareness. And maybe a willingness to trust that you have as much right to be there as anyone who walked in before you.

Because you do.