The phone rings. “Go get 24 large Labatt’s,” my father barks as he rushes to pick up the receiver in his grocery-butcher (and beer) store.
It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday, well before the age of artificial intelligence and databanks but my father knows his customers – who will be calling at this time and much of what will be in their order. It’s also well before a time when food merchants began to use the internet for orders and to facilitate deliveries. A telephone and a few teenage delivery boys, including me, with bicycles and large wood carriers on the front get it done – even in winter and even on the steep slope between Ontario and Sherbrooke streets in east-end Montreal.
These thoughts come to mind as I read about the innovations that allow executives in ever-larger corporations to deal with modern customer trends. It all seems so new, innovative and promising, but my father was doing it in 1947 when he opened Marché G&M Market. I learned a lot working there, helping him but also helping myself in high school and while studying commerce at McGill University.
Later on a typical Saturday afternoon, my role would often involve location tracking. There was no sophisticated spyware or even a mobile phone to find Alphonse. He usually came between 5 and 6 p.m. to tell us what meat he wanted along with his beer to make it through to Monday. If he had not arrived by 6 p.m., I would be sent to find him, usually at the tavern between our store and his apartment. He would trudge in and survey the meat – not settling for telling me from his perch in the tavern – and we would ask, sometimes repeatedly depending on his state of sobriety, if he was going directly home.
He always insisted he would and mostly that was true, but every so often I would climb the flight of stairs to the second floor of his building, lugging the 24 beers and package of meat, only to receive no answer when pounding on the door. Back to the tavern. I would then accompany him home, trying to make conversation despite the barrier of my poor French and his beer-fuelled ramblings. It was deluxe customer service.
There was a couple who every morning called for six small Labatt’s, the newspaper and perhaps some groceries. We didn’t carry newspapers but I would pick it up along the way. The late afternoon would usually but not always bring a phone call for six more. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t make just one morning order. But my father admonished me for making such judgments. He could be judgmental in his personal life or with his employees, but for Mr. Bennie, as everyone called my dad, customers were golden.
He gave them the best meat their budgets would allow, as if they were family. He would even give them food destined for his family. Our day would begin by heading to the Bonsecours Market, where he would negotiate deals with farmers for fruit and vegetables. In summer, I’d be often told to put two baskets of strawberries aside “for your mother.” But every third or fourth time, somebody would come in close to closing wanting strawberries. If they asked the cashier, they would be told, “we’re sold out.” If they asked my father, or he heard them, they would often take home the two boxes set aside for us.
He also gave them credit. He kept receipt books with their names and a tally. When times were tough, they could count on Mr. Bennie. The amount would sometimes rise to threatening levels and he would clamp down. But he knew them, their situation, cared for them and sensed how far he could go. They needed him. He needed them. They were customers and customers were like family.
Ironically, he paid cash for everything, including his Chrysler cars, bought from one of those customers, who owned a restaurant and auto dealership on the outskirts of Montreal, which used our hamburger meat. Later, when everyone around him had these new-fangled credit cards, including his son, he applied for one, just in case it might come in handy some day. He was rejected, which didn’t seem to matter to him but did to me. I called a McGill schoolmate who was involved in introducing Master Charge (now Mastercard) to Canada and argued the formulae (this was before the days the word algorithm became omni-present) failed to account for somebody with little credit history because they were careful with their money. Surely someone like that could be given a card with the most modest credit limit? He was.
We read these days about how competition can come from unexpected places. He was fighting supermarkets, with their vast selection, longer hours and lower prices, but they weren’t allowed to sell beer, lacked the personal touch and didn’t give credit. His location, however, became premium when a subway stop was plunked down in front of the store. Direct Film and Express Film, which developed film in the pre-digital era, both wanted outlets by the subway, and one offered far more than what he was paying in rent to the landlord. That was followed by the film store promising him a sizable amount of cash if he were to move out immediately, while his merchandise was stored. One day he was there, the next day, without warning, Mr. Bennie was gone. So too was part of him, and he never replaced those customers, soon retiring.
He called himself a butcher, not a business owner or entrepreneur as is the fashion these days. In his mind, I was not to be either, a professional in a white shirt rather than bloodstained white apron at Marché G&M Market. In a twist of life, G&M returned to my life as I ended up sharing business lessons for managers in The Globe and Mail, today from my father on no matter how things change, customer service from the heart still wins.
Harvey Schachter is a Kingston-based writer specializing in management issues. He, along with Sheelagh Whittaker, former CEO of both EDS Canada and Cancom, are the authors of When Harvey Didn’t Meet Sheelagh: Emails on Leadership.