What Book Club Fiction Taught Me: The Real Reason Regulars Keep Coming Back

Last Thursday evening, six of us from the book club squeezed into a corner of a café in New Farm and spent well over an hour in what could only be described as a heated debate. The book we'd read was a contemporary novel about a protagonist who loses his sense of purpose after the neighbourhood grocery store he'd patronised for decades finally closes. One of our members, Sandra, said, "You can just go to another shop — shopping is shopping," and in that moment I set down my teacup and felt a brief, irrational flash of resentment toward her.

Shopping is shopping? After 22 years of running this store, that stung.

But on the drive home, turning it over in my mind, I had to admit Sandra wasn't entirely wrong. The real question was what came next. Why does the loss of some shops leave a hole in your life, while others can disappear without anyone noticing? And a more uncomfortable question followed close behind: which kind is mine?

The Illusion the Points Card Created

When I first opened the store, I put real thought into designing a loyalty programme. A percentage of each purchase accumulated as points, a $10 coupon went out in your birthday month, and orders over a certain amount qualified for free shipping. If I'm honest, I genuinely believed that was how you built regulars. Make the rewards attractive enough and people will keep coming back.

That belief began to crack about three years ago. A supply chain issue meant one of our core products was out of stock for nearly two months. During that time, several of the customers with the highest points balances quietly disappeared. Emails went unanswered; even when I sent a restock notification, they didn't return. Meanwhile, a handful of customers who had barely accumulated any points actually reached out more often during those two months. Not to ask "when will it be back in?" but to say, unprompted, "Are you doing okay? That must be tough."

That was the first moment I sensed something was different.

What the Grocery Store in the Novel Was Really Selling

Getting back to the book club novel — what I found interesting was the reason the protagonist missed that store. It wasn't the low prices or the ample car park. It was that the owner remembered which brand of butter she liked. That he'd asked after her child when the child was ill. That the brief exchange at the checkout was the only moment in her entire day when she felt treated as a human being. I read that passage and stopped, holding my finger in the pages.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard the word belonging in a psychology class, yet suddenly the concept felt intensely practical. People keep returning to a place because that place makes them feel recognised. To be recognised is to be remembered, and to be remembered is a signal that you are more than a transaction.

Was our store sending that signal? Honestly, I wasn't sure.

What I Actually Changed

I didn't overhaul the whole system. I've always trusted small habits over grand restructures anyway.

One change was in how I run meetings with staff. Previously our weekly catch-ups centred on sales figures and stock levels. I added one item to the agenda: "Did any customer share something personal with you this week?" Someone moving house, someone whose child is about to get married, someone who hadn't been in for a long time. We share those details briefly so that the next time that person comes in, whoever is on the floor can pick up the thread.

Another change was deliberately spending more time behind the counter myself. When the owner is out front, certain things happen: customers recognise you and open up more easily; staff, seeing you there, give themselves a little more room to have a real conversation. It feels inefficient, but it has changed quite a lot.

One more thing. When stock runs out or a price goes up, I say so first now. A text message, or a small notice on the door: "This product's price has gone up this month for this reason." It felt awkward to write at first. But the responses were warmer than I expected. A few people said thank you for letting them know, and one person said, "I like your shop — you're straight with people." Honesty gets remembered too, it turns out.

What the protagonist in the novel lost wasn't the store itself — it was the place where she was known. I want ours to be that kind of place. Somewhere people feel, even without a points card, that they'll be recognised when they walk in. Whether that's truly possible, and how to keep sustaining it, is something I'm honestly still figuring out.

In your own shop or business, do you have particular ways of creating moments where customers feel remembered?