"Sir," you discreetly say to him, "May I speak to you for a moment." "Certainly," he says, full of liquor and bragadoccio. You gesture with your head for him to follow you to a less populated area of the bar.
Locking eyes with him with your best steely gaze you launch into it. "I saw you."
His eyes flicker back and forth nervously.
"I saw you take money out of the jar."
You wait for this to sink in. You know he didn't steal anything so much as he just faked tipping you, but it can look pretty similar.
"I did not..."
"You see that row of bottles? Right behind it is a camera that records everybody at the bar. I'm ready RIGHT now to call the police."
"Now wait just a minute," he splurts, flustered now as he begins to realize that on tape, it will look like he had his hands in the cookie jar.
"But things don't have to go down that way," you continue. "I don't want to shake up everybody and embarass you in front of your friends by bringing in the po po. I'll tell ya what."
You give him a minute to wonder what the what is going to be, getting a wonderful schadenfreude show from his now-meek frightened face.
"You put, let's say, sixty bucks right now quietly into this tip jar over here, say goodbye to your buddies, and get the hell out of my bar and we'll just pretend this whole thing never happened."
He meets your stare for a second. You're not sure if his overwhelming yuppie greed will win out over his common sense, but he quickly folds, digs out his designer wallet, and drop three twenties in the jar. He casts his gaze to the floor, pride mortally wounded at least till the next round of shooters at whatever bar he ends up at next, and goes to make up a story to his friends to excuse him.