Saturday night is my night to sit in front of my large-screen computer and treat myself to an evening of "mindless" YouTube videos. Last night, I chose this one:
Claridge's - Inside the Hotel for the Super-Rich.
I thought it would interest me for about 30 seconds.
But I watched this 55-minute and 49-second documentary from beginning to end, captivated, and even drawing back the progress bar to re-watch a few segments.
Why? Because it contains SO many lessons for any operator in the broader retail or hospitality sectors (and I do mean, the
very broadest
definition of those sectors) that could turn an ailing business around in quick-time, make a new business go viral with online fan-commentary, increase share-of-wallet from an existing customer base . . . and, most definitely, send customer LTV (Life-Time Value) through the roof.
I know what you're thinking. What lessons can possibly be translatable from a historic and elitist icon of London's hotel scene, to any small business in little ol' NZ . . . right?
PLENTY.
There's the example of the 80-something Californian couple who have spent their annual holidays at Claridge's every year for the past 40. The documentary shows the delighted elderly pair unwrapping a silver tray that had arrived (at their home in California) from the manager and their favorite butler at Claridge's, with engraving congratulating them on their 65th wedding anniversary.
And there's the example of the completely unflappable management team who customised the decor and trimmings of an entire floor of the hotel for a large group of foreign visitors, after researching their personal tastes . . . before the booking had had its final confirmation, and with the group two days late in turning up.
Then there's the woman who refuses to stay at any other hotel because of the treatment her dog
(who's not only allowed to stay at the hotel, but receives his own special welcome) receives - which includes having his own bedding and bowls kept in storage at the hotel between visits, and being walked personally by her appointed hotel butler.
Again . . . I can hear the cynical cogs turning: You realise, Jordan, that these elite clientele pay upwards of 5000 British pounds a night, right?
It's about the money, J-o-r-d-a-n.
NOT SO FAST.
No, it's about
more than the money.
Watch it and you'll see what I mean. It's about
custom, attitude and all-round
graciousness. If you take the time to watch, the extraordinary class and graciousness of the staff - most especially the general manager - can hardly escape your attention.
The customised redecoration of the rooms and installation of a jacuzzi to appease an expected pop star, and the expense of having a guest's favourite food item always at hand just in case they should order it on that day . . . all that is
hard cost. Yes. Granted.
BUT . . . the graciousness, class, diplomacy and attentiveness of the staff costs nothing but good staff selection processes and a culture fostered and ingrained by management example.
And still I hear the protestations of the cynical amongst you: They have a HUGE pool of potential employees to draw from, and they probably pay them a mint. To say nothing of the tip culture in elite hotels.
And
still I say to you, that the management example and expectation of graciousness, class, and personalised attentiveness either costs a business nothing . . . or, at most, is a
soft cost.
Let me give you a couple of classic examples.
What, today, are two businesses you expect the very lowest levels of customer service from? Think about it.
I'll tell you: Supermarkets and "servos"
(I'll refrain from calling them "service stations" - coz there ain't a lot of service going on at the average BP or Z petrol fill-up mega-joint).
Now here are two examples of extraordinary service from my everyday life that cost the two businesses in question NOTHING to provide . . . but keep me going back to them intentionally, specifically, and
loyally, when I could choose to go to any of their competitors at any time. But, where the choice exists, I will always, ALWAYS go out of my way to patronise these businesses.
Example No. 1:
This example is one of a humble but
extraordinary little service station ("Adamsons") in Featherston in the Wairarapa Valley (and I
will
call this one a service station, because it deserves the title). I live in Masterton, but if I'm ever planning a trip to Wellington, I'll drive around town for a week on near-empty just so that I can fill up there.
Why?
Last Thursday I had a dentist appointment in Wellington. I hadn't been to Wellington for several months. Quite unusual. I arrived, on empty, and got out to go into the shop and see if my regular guy was there to fill me up (I loathe the smell of petrol). I didn't need to. Another guy was already unscrewing my petrol cap, waiting with a smile for me to instruct him on which petrol to fill the tank with. I entered the shop and my regular guy was standing at the counter and greeted me with an enormous smile and a friendly comment about how long it's been since they'd seen me.
Did that cost them a cent to make me feel so incredibly special? Not a razoo. And here I am writing a testimonial that my several thousand readers will see, and that they can share with any of their customer base. So that's a pretty good ROI for a smile and a personal fill-up, isn't it? Get my point? You never know
who your next customer is - or even who your existing customers are (or who
they talk to) - in many cases. But the chances of their LTV being worthwhile to your business is always pretty jolly high.
Example No. 2:
I refuse to drink fluoridated water. So I drink a very nice mountain spring water that's casked by
a manufacturer whose management, in my opinion, is contemptuously dismissive of customer feedback. The customer feedback I'm talking about is something you can read about
here.
Given my refusal to risk my kitchen floor being the recipient of
another 10 litres of water from the bursting-off of a tap from an ill-positioned foil bladder within a cardboard cask, I ask the staff at Moore Wilson speciality-and-bulk grocery outlet in Masterton if they will take the risk on my behalf. They've done it so many times for me, that recently I've begun giving them a call beforehand to give them a heads-up . . . since I can see from the fact that they've had to rip open and reassemble and re-tape the casks after fossicking around for the ill-fitting taps inside the boxes, that they almost always have the same battle with the packaging that I had . . . and it's somewhat time-consuming.
Not only is there never an ounce of reticence to help me out in this manner, but - in fact - the casks are usually awaiting my arrival in a trolley at the end of the check-out they've normally observed that I go through at the conclusion of my shops there.
Yesterday, I had a question about a product. The knowledgeable young bloke on the check-out called over (the manager?), introduced me by my full name, explained my query, and asked her to take me over to the relevant area of the store, and give me detailed assistance. Nice. And the cost to Moore Wilson? A few minutes of the staff member's time . . . who was walking the floor anyway.
Now for an example of totally crap service, with no excuse.
Farmers Department Store: Be Ashamed. Be
Very
Ashamed.
I mentioned I'd been in Wellington for a dentist appointment last Thursday. Said dentist
(he's great, BTW, and a review may be forthcoming at some point)
has one of his two clinics on Lambton Quay.
So I'm walking past Farmers on the way back to my vehicle. And I realise, hey, I could do with a few items. And I go into scout around for them. And I pass multiple groups of uninterested floor staff in entertaining discussions with each other . . . completely oblivious to "their" customers.
It's usual for Farmers, so I don't take too much notice. Just their crappy expected environment. But I did need to ask for the help of one staff member, when I was on the hunt for an elusive black beanie or beret or something of that ilk. Sure, she helped me out . . . but the lack of enthusiasm or friendliness was palpable. Palpable to the degree that my own attempts at friendly banter left me feeling demoralised and a bit silly. I wish I hadn't bothered.
And here's the thing. We have a struggling retail environment. Farmers had more floor staff than customers on that evening, and a bus stop full of people who'd just knocked off work, dangling around outside.
Can't Farmers' management see what's
wrong with that picture?
Clearly not. And I rest my case. It's a wonder they're still trading. Probably only still trading because of the prime location and the institution-value of the household-name brand. Imagine how much better they could do with a better customer service culture. Or just some actual customer service.
Anyway, I never intended this to be such a long article. But it never ceases to amaze me how utterly simple and phenomenally profitable it is to provide good customer service and personalised attention . . . no matter the business or size thereof. And how few business operators - large or small - recognise this glaringly obvious fact.
