Sales for Non-Sales Professionals: The Well-Fed Customer

What was the last really great meal you had out? Maybe your answer involves the person staring at you from across the table, or a scenic view of the water, or a surprise fancy ingredient (bottarga grated over handmade pasta, who knew?) that you didn’t know you were craving.

What’s a restaurant dish you recommend when someone moves to your town? One person will want to showcase a beloved red-sauce joint; another foregrounds a buzzy innovation that serves dishes rolling in dry ice. A third person may send you to a guy named Bobby, who has a rib smoker that he operates in the parking lot of a gas station.

What’s your test order when you think a place could attain “favorite” status? Which spot does it best? I have a friend who, if he’s had a terrific experience (and only if so) orders the crème brulée for dessert, regardless of whether he’s still hungry. That’s his version of throwing down the culinary gauntlet.  

Maybe it is counterintuitive to bring up food services in a conversation about “Sales for Non-Sales Professionals,” because food service seemingly carries such an explicit sales element. Every meal ends in a bill, right? Prices are set in advance; people walk in (or up) fully expecting to purchase, consume, and pay. So, what is there to talk about? Plenty. Service patterns around food engage our larger feelings about what it means to feel welcomed, tempted, comforted, and nourished. 

How does this apply to me? I don’t sling burgers for a living. Well, guess what: We’re all working the hot line when it comes to meeting needs. You want someone to say about your work, “You gotta check this out,” the same way they’d confide about a newfound taco joint.

PLATE YOUR STORY

My “you gotta check this out” moment happened soon after arriving for a temporary job in Wichita, Kansas. Admittedly, I was moping about a lack of fresh fish. The person giving me advice recommended a sushi restaurant and then—dropping their voice—asked if I liked poke.

Having spent time in Hawaii, of course I did: poke is a traditional plate there, a brilliance of soy-marinated cubes of fresh fish, seaweed, and vinegar-laced vegetables over seasoned rice. But why was he asking? Where was I going to find ahi poke in a landlocked state?

That’s how I found out about Noble House, a Hawaiian plate lunch business that thrives in the food truck space—though fortunately, during my brief time in Kansas, they had a brick-and-mortar location in downtown Wichita as well, which quickly became my favorite work spot. I was delighted to taste tuna, pork, and salmon flavors I had not experienced since being within view of the Pacific. I gave them as much business as my stomach could handle.   

For chef Akamu Noble, part of the challenge is getting Kansas-born-and-raised folks, unfamiliar with Hawaiian food traditions, ready to take a chance on their food truck when it pulls up to a parking lot or a college campus. His brilliant solution? “Luau in a Box,” which pairs a serving of Huli Huli (teriyaki) chicken alongside Kalua (slow-roasted, pulled) pork, anchored by scoops of white rice and macaroni salad.

Lure them in with a concept they know from popular media (luau!). Make sure they get plenty of protein and starch, to leave them feeling full and good about the money they’ve spent. Once you have a customer’s trust, maybe then you can introduce them to the raw fish and Spam musubi.

GOLD LEAF? MEH

Have you ever watched a food-service destination open that featured a truly gifted chef, someone who presumably generates plenty of draw—only for their restaurant or venture to close within a year or two? I’ve seen it happen over and over in D.C., including Top-Chef breakout star Kwame Onwuachi’s wildly overpriced and fussy Shaw Bijou, which closed just after eleven weeks. (He later rebounded by opening the much homier and beloved Kith/Kin.)

There are any number of reasons why one restaurant concept works and another doesn’t. But what I’ll highlight is the importance of following the “Platinum Rule.” Maybe you’re familiar with the Golden Rule—“do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.” That’s the equivalent of gold leaf sprinkled over a dish, flashy but flavorless. The Platinum Rule offers different advice: Treat others as they want to be treated. Don’t let projection of ego overrule a customer’s manifest needs. Meet them where they are.

As I write this, my mind immediately goes to a tale of two Washington, D.C. restaurants that are open right now. (I’m going to keep these vague because I might need to get a decent table at either spot in the near future.) Both places have leaned into the trend of listing feature proteins on their menu, pricey, with no sides built in; you order those separately. Understandably—at least, for my wallet—if you’re with someone who wants French fries and broccolini, and you also want French fries and broccolini, you get one side of each and share.

Let’s assume you mention this plan to the waiter as you order. From there, the quality of the experience varies based on the kitchen’s attitudes. Do they serve fries in a cone that is hard for more than one person to access, or a platter that’s easily reached by all? Do they send out the extra serving ware that you’ve already said is needed, or do you have to wait for five minutes while the waiter loops back with clean forks, during which time the food gets cold? If you’re trying to split a protein, such as chicken wings or scallops, do they plate products in even numbers for easier splitting?

Here’s the quiet part, out loud: Do they make you feel guilty for wanting to save a little money?

I’m going to pay my check, either way. I’m going to tip the same in the moment. But there’s a difference between a restaurant that I then recommend to others, for larger groups or family get-togethers, and the one where I say, “The food is really tasty, but….”

OAT MILK FOR ALL

Southwest D.C.’s The Grill opened in February 2020, which (in hindsight) was an absolutely gnarly time to open a restaurant. Gorgeous lighting, banquette seating, and completely empty tables come March. As our mayor’s pandemic restrictions limited spending time in public spaces, they had to decide what to do. Close completely? That probably made the most sense.

Instead, they stayed open to serve the neighborhood, in a hybrid capacity that included a handful of carry-out options (some fully pre-prepared, some DIY-at-home with instructions), and a conversion of their pantry into a bodega. Because only one customer could come in at a time, it was natural to make conversation with the man behind the register. Later, I would realize, he was the general manager of the restaurant and a higher-up in the KNEAD Hospitality group.

I found myself stopping by, masked and gloved, to buy onions and cabbage. When my friend had an exposure risk, he bent the limits on sanitizer purchases so I could take her extra in addition to my own. The next week, he remembered and asked how she was feeling. I’d stop in for a head of garlic, celery, three large carrots, and a roll of toilet paper; I can’t imagine they were making much money from any of this. He smiled when I mentioned my husband liked the barista-style oat milk I brought home, and—since the distributor had comped them stock, in expectation of coffee services that never happened—gave us another three boxes for free.  

As the city reopened and the pace of meeting for meals picked up again, I found myself magnetically attracted to the space. That’s where my father and I sat, outdoors and post-vaccination, for our first order of French fries in months. That’s where I took friends visiting from Mississippi in search of cocktails. That’s where I like to roost now, at happy hour, with a manuscript that needs editing and an order of Spanish eggplant salad, drizzled in sherry vinegar.

In the Maestro Group, we talk about the importance of “gifting,” to show prospects and clients that your attention comes from a place of authenticity. Sure, I put money down on the counter for the onions and cabbage, but there was a “gift” in the attention given to an overwhelmed woman navigating a pandemic. The Grill may not have turned a profit in those first six months, but I know that they scored lifetime customers, like me, who will return for as long as they’re there.

People are often wary of being “salesy,” even when their job requires it. But sales is simply recognizing when two people’s needs bend toward each other and share a common path. Remember the restaurant (or food truck, or fast-casual) meals you’ve had that nourished you most, in belly and spirit. Did you begrudge them when it came time for the bill? Of course not. You want to reward work. You want them to be able to feed their own families. Paying people for their labor is a satisfying feeling. If you do the job you’ve been asked to do, with authenticity and enthusiasm, then there’s nothing to be ashamed of—and everything to be thankful for.

We can help sales professionals and non-sales professionals alike. Reach us at mastery@maestrogroup.co for more information on training, coaching, and consulting.