There were lots of places to buy this bag, it was a well-known bag and had been around for many years.
First of all I looked around online.
The bag was easily available, on various shops and platforms.
It would be very easy for me to buy it, and the price would have been very good.
But something stopped me from buying it.
Maybe it was the guilt of buying such an unnecessary expensive luxury.
A week or so passed, and I still wanted to buy the bag.
I was at an airport, in the luxury goods department, and there was the bag.
The price was good again.
I didn’t have much time, and there was a long queue in the shop to see an assistant.
I got impatient waiting to see the bag.
Finally, the assistant was free.
He took the bag down from the shelf, and put it down rather casually, dumping it down like a bag of potatoes.
The bag looked a bit sad and sorry.
The leather tag was still clumsily wrapped in protective plastic, the zip half closed.
The assistant didn’t seem to care less.
I didn’t buy the bag.
Another few weeks passed, and I still wanted the bag.
I was in Mayfair, and I decided to go to the Louis Vuitton shop in Bond Street.
It was six o clock in June, and the light shimmered on the gold hanging display they had on the building at the time.
The uniformed doorman welcomed me in with a smile.
The carpet felt soft and new, like it had been vacuumed thirty seconds ago.
The light seemed golden, the brass and gilt details in the shop fitting glinting like candles in the mirrors.
The subtle smell was leather and perfume, sophisticated and sexy.
The bag was displayed in its own niche, lit from three separate angles.
It looked beautiful. Exactly as I’d dreamed.
The price was a lot higher though.
An assistant came over.
‘Hello, I’m George. Would you like some help?’
I said I was interested in buying the bag.
He went to a cupboard and very slowly took out a large cloth bag, and holding it with both hands like an art expert might hold something very rare and precious, placed it softly on the counter.
He then gently opened it revealing my bag inside.
The protective cloth bag was whisked away and folded. A pair of white gloves was put on, and any tiny bits of white lint were brushed away.
The bag sat there, perfectly formed, exactly as I imagined the person who put the final stitch would have wanted.
I bought the bag, because they made it special.
Restaurants are no different.
If you make things special, go the extra mile, think about all the little details, like you really care, your guests will feel special.
Presenting yourself as special is not all about lavish, expensive design, armies of staff of grand statement furnishings, it’s more a state of mind.
It could be the polite and reassuring note you receive to confirm your booking.
A thoughtful generosity in table spacing or sound levels.
The remembering of a guest’s dietary preferences before they mention them.
Willing service which appears instantly available the moment the guest needs it.
From the moment they book their table until the moment they leave, the guest needs to feel like they are fulfilling or reconfirming any dream they had about you.
When things feel special, they feel good value.
Nobody complains when they feel good value.
Make it special.
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