It’s a long-standing joke among the white-gloved doormen of a particularly high-end co-op in New York City that the multimillionaire doctor on the 15th floor keeps a spreadsheet of how long each of them has been employed.
But he doesn’t consult the chart so he can congratulate them on their anniversary at the building — it’s his fail-safe method of calculating holiday tips.
“Your first year, you get $1, your second year, $2,” sighs a service industry insider, who, in common with the doormen quoted in this piece, asked to remain anonymous for fear of ruffling feathers and jeopardizing their jobs. “If you’ve been there 20 years, you can expect a $20 bill.”
It doesn’t matter how many times they’ve packed up his Escalade for trips to the family’s second home in the Hamptons or the warmth of the pleasantries during the thrice-weekly deliveries from Zabar’s — the doormen’s annual rewards depend on the length of their tenure.
“It’s the guy’s tried and tested formula and he sticks to it,” says the source.
Nobody will cop to whether the physician is often the last to have his air conditioning fixed, or if his SUV was deliberately scratched that time on its way out of the parking garage. But the trusty formula has earned him some choice nicknames, the printable one being “Skinflint.”
It may be the season of giving, but, much like Mr. Scrooge of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” the haves are not giving to the have-nots.
The salary cap for unionized doormen in the city is $44,000, so extra cash is more than welcome to working-class family guys who generally live in Jersey and the outer boroughs.
But all too frequently, the amount given wouldn’t buy a feast to feed poor Tiny Tim — never mind a Christmas goose from Gristedes.
“Some of the retirees — the older generation — haven’t moved with the times,” says Nick, a 30-something uniformed doorman who’d wandered to the rear of his soaring Central Park West limestone to snatch a cigarette in the frigid temperatures last week.
“They’re still living in the last century. If we’re lucky, they might give us $15 in an envelope.”
While some disgruntled employees regard this as an insult and return the envelope (anonymously) under the tenants’ door, Nick politely pockets the cash and chalks it up to experience.
“What are you gonna say?” he explains, stretching out the palms of his hands in a mock helpless gesture. “You smile and say, ‘Thank you very much,’ but really you’re thinking: ‘Jeez, I gotta live in this city too!’
“God bless their hearts, but they don’t get it. You look at it and think, ‘Wow, and that’s for a whole year’s service!’ ”
Fortunately for him, the building also houses a small posse of Wall Street bankers who (with the odd exception) are rather more generous.
“I’ve had $450 cash from each of the banker guys,” reveals Nick. “It makes a big difference at this time of year.”
Stroll across the park, however, to a famous hotel with residential suites, and an older, clearly more jaded doorman has a different take on the generosity of the capitalist elite.
“To be honest, it’s the white middle-aged bankers who are the meanest,” grumbles the staffer, moments after easing a fur-coat-wearing octogenarian into her chauffeur-driven car. “The same guys who caused the economic collapse. You didn’t see any black faces caught up in that scandal.
“Their whole philosophy is take, take, take. You won’t see them sharing their wealth with the likes of us.”
Michael Gross, author of the best-selling book “740 Park,” which delves behind the scenes at one of Manhattan’s most illustrious addresses (the building houses the largest concentration of billionaires in the US), sympathizes with his argument.
“Rich people and stinginess go together like bread and butter,” he tells The Post. “That’s how they stay rich.
“But you can’t generalize or predict. The size of someone’s fortune is not going to be a predictor of their generosity.”
Highlighting the point, there was a delicious snippet in last year’s PBS documentary, “Park Avenue: Power, Money and The American Dream,” which drew on material from Gross’ book. A former 740 Park Ave. doorman dished to director Alex Gibney about the most tight-fisted residents and dared to name names.
The worst offender was oil baron David Koch, co-founder of Koch Industries, who has an estimated worth of $36 billion.
“We would load up his trucks — two vans usually — every weekend for the Hamptons . . . multiple guys, in and out, in and out, heavy bags,” said the employee, his face in shadow to protect his identity on TV. “We would never get a tip from Mr. Koch. We would never get a smile from Mr.Koch.
“[Just] a $50 check for Christmas.”
In other words, they didn’t even receive a cash tip from the man ranked No. 4 in the Forbes 400.
Meanwhile, at an imposing pre-war co-op with gilded ironwork on the Upper East Side, a doorman takes time out from picking up pine needles dropped from a twinkling Christmas tree to reveal that an old-school tenant occasionally gives him a candy cane for the holidays — nothing more, nothing less.
“She’s well into her 90s, I think, so we can’t really complain because she means well,” he says. “At least she doesn’t pretend to forget like some of the others.”
And in downtown Manhattan, in a tony, modern building near the West Side Highway favored by younger investment banker types and celebrities, a new trend is creeping in.
“We’re starting to get people who give homemade stuff, the cookies-and-muffins thing,” sighs one doorman, headed out for a clandestine smoke near the service entrance filled with cardboard boxes. “It’s all very well, but money talks, if you know what I mean.”
Researching his latest book, “The House of Outrageous Fortune: 15 Central Park West,” due in March 2014, about the ultra-glamorous condo on the southwest edge of the park, Gross did not come across any hilarious tales about the wives of financial titans presenting “the help” with just a plate of peanut brittle.
But he did discover that one resident — he won’t say whether it was Sting, Alex Rodriguez, hedge fund CEO Daniel Loeb or any of the other high-profile residents living in the $100 million penthouse suites — was once a “wild over-tipper.”
To the chagrin of the staff, he was somehow made aware of the fact.
“In his first year in the building, he was way generous, and the second year, they [the doormen] were licking their lips in anticipation of his tips,” recalls Gross.
“But this time, he cut the amount in half and everyone ended up thinking he was the stingiest motherf - - - er on the planet!”