Loyalty Rewarded

Becoming a regular

I am one half-sweet, salted-caramel latte away from filling up the rewards card from the coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. Their loyalty program operates on the honor system—something that could seemingly only exist today at a mom-and-pop shop. The hole punch sits by the register and presses out little stars for each cup ordered. Every tenth star is good for a coffee free of charge, no purchase necessary.

Despite my best efforts, I cannot think of many loyalty cards (if any?) I have punched or stamped to completion over the years. At the bottom of my bag and inside my desk drawers live graveyards of softened and creased cards from frozen yogurt shops, massage parlors, and nail salons.

Early on, I saw how the dollar went further when credit was pre-established. One of the feats of my youth was winning my family a Cuisinart juicer from Donelan’s, the local supermarket. I suppose my parents were the true winners of said prize—the measly juicer a result of hundreds of dollars spent on the Pop-Tarts, Hershey’s chocolate milk, and Annie’s white cheddar mac and cheese that sustained our childhood—but I claimed the win as my own. As the youngest child, I was my mother’s shadow for most tasks and was eager to gamify an errand as dreadful as grocery shopping. For every twenty-five dollars spent, the cashier doled out a reel of five stickers to add to the Cuisinart rewards booklet. With twenty-five stickers, you could cash in for a whisk, ladle, or pair of tongs. Once you reached fifty stickers, you could go for a set of steak knives. With one hundred stickers, you reached the premium tier (which, of course, was the only one I had eyes for) and could choose between a juicer or a waffle maker. We already had a waffle maker at home.

I remember the closet in my mother’s bathroom being filled with shampoo and conditioner, supplements, and powders purchased from her trainer who would come over after their sessions and talk her through a pamphlet of products. Evidently, in addition to prowess in the gym, her trainer was a skilled member of a pyramid scheme. When she started pitching Cutco knives at the end of the treadmill blocks, my mom decided enough was enough and wrote to her that she would no longer be working out. She would sooner leave the gym altogether than admit she didn’t want to write another check for essential oils or mushroom root powder. Allegiance with a side of guilt is a lucrative equation for a salesman.

Loyalty, clearly, has been commodified in a way that can either be exploitative or, in the best case, mutually beneficial. There are many ways to vie for retention: personalized emails, VIP promotions, discount codes, free gifts with purchase, birthday treats. It is far easier to entice customers to return rather than to seek new ones continuously. Our desire to know and be known is a brilliant and effective way to make money. However, in a world such as ours where money must be spent, we might as well find a meaningful way to exchange. For a customer, loyalty invites connection around consumption, rewarding places that make you feel seen with your dollar. In the office this week, my team devoured a shipment of Peanut Butter Patties, Thin Mints, and Caramel Delights (thank you Hannah for reminding me that the names differ by region…*previously incorrectly identified as Tag-Alongs and Samoas*) purchased from a coworker’s niece who is a Girl Scout. How can you possibly say no to a sash-adorned young businesswoman knocking at your door? You couldn’t possibly. In this way, a cookie becomes that much sweeter.

I have a friend who orders coffees and salads and pastries under a pseudonym—always the same name, never her own. She once told me the moment she is recognized somewhere is when she knows it’s time to find a new spot. I both admire her coy nature and remain fascinated by her desire to be unknown. I met her for coffee the other day. She told me the barista around the corner has been flirting with her. She has been flirting back. I wonder what would happen if he asked her out for a drink. What would he save her number as?

One of the greatest accomplishments of my college years was becoming a regular at a neighborhood coffee shop. I went at the same time each week, walking over before the sun had risen to spend the first hour of the day with a gaggle of neighbors I came to know—know as in recognize and understand their routines, pick out habits and favorite sweaters, but never with enough familiarity to speak long enough to learn their names. Over the months I sat in the back left corner, I watched a pair of friends pick up coffees after 5:30am yoga; an older gentleman read the Washington Post, always dressed in coat and tie even before the sun had fully risen; a tail-wagging golden retriever, beloved by the barista and greeted with a cup of whipped cream. The morning I reached the counter to find my order waiting for me, Sarah scrawled across the side, is one I will not forget. I hadn’t realized that in my mornings spent noticing, I was also being noticed.

On nights my siblings and I are back in Massachusetts for the holidays, we are often split on which pizzeria to order takeout from. A few years back, in a COVID-era family activity, we decided to put our allegiances to the test and order seven pizzas from spots within a five mile radius of our childhood home to taste blindly, ranking and guessing where each came from.

My dad is undoubtedly the most fiercely loyal consumer I know. He will sooner select connecting flights departing in the wee hours of the morning rather than purchase a seat on the direct flight of a competitor. He would sooner drink a warm and flat Diet Coke than be served Diet Pepsi at a restaurant. He keeps a Rolodex of taxi drivers, befriended across the globe on trips to and from the airport, whom he keeps up with. Thus, the night of our pizza palooza all eyes were on him—his proclaimed favorite from a restaurant infamously known in our house as GROHO (Groton House of Pizza). The slice, only comparable to something from a dimly-lit arcade birthday party, has been a staple of his diet for the nearly five decades he has lived there. Anyone who has set eyes on said pizza, much less taken a bite of, would say with certainty his affinity is a result of nostalgia rather than quality.

Loyalty is much deeper than a few dollars off now and then. At its best, it is what makes cities feel like neighborhoods and our days feel like our own. Loyalty is often born of privilege, afforded to those with the means of choice and the freedom to stay in a homeland, neighborhood, relationship.

One can only be truly loyal in the face of choosing—knowing that other options await, at times even ‘better’ ones, and still opting to return. The joy I have found in my punch card stars is a welcomed reminder of how precious everyday choices can be when made in special places. As the great Joan Didion said, ‘Well, every day is all there is.’

I write this letter on a flight to London (perhaps tidbits to come), surrounded by the endless petitions for loyalty so fundamental to airline marketing. Left and right and center my own failings in managing my points and miles taunt me—lounges, upgrades, free checked bags. I can only imagine the countless riches I am missing out on! Nevertheless, I’m excited to enjoy the free coffee waiting for me back in New York. One more star to go!