The $28 Promise

Food has this wonderful way of bringing people together, introducing us to different cultures, and creating memories that stay with us long after the plates have been cleared. Sometimes it's an elaborate tasting menu. Other times, it's a club sandwich with fries by the pool (elite, no notes), which, for the record, is the only acceptable poolside meal.

Side note: I take this rule seriously. On a visit to the Rosewood Miramar, the club sandwich wasn't even on the menu. But I asked, and they made it for me anyway. This is why the Rosewood Miramar will always have my heart.

I love all types of food, but I'm especially drawn to Italian. Maybe it's the carbs. And living in Los Angeles, we're fortunate to have some wonderful Italian restaurants to choose from. Classic Italian, American Italian, kinda Italian…you get the idea. Recently, I was out with friends, and somewhere between ordering a $28 bowl of pasta (and remembering that flour, water, and eggs are relatively inexpensive), I started to have some questions.

Specifically, what does price promise?

I understand that restaurants are businesses, and businesses need to make money. There are plenty of legitimate reasons a bowl of pasta might cost $28. But consumers don't experience a restaurant's margins. They experience what that restaurant delivers in exchange for their money. And that's not exclusive to restaurants.

Price is part of what shapes our expectations. But it's rarely the whole story. Luxury brands, hotels, entertainment, and countless other businesses ask customers to pay for something beyond the functional product. A hotel isn't simply selling a room. A luxury brand isn't merely selling fabric and stitching. They're offering craft, consistency, service, reputation, and the feeling that comes from an experience.

And with all that comes a promise.

There's something particularly interesting about that promise in hospitality. We make reservations based on reputation and reviews, look at menus, consider the prices, and decide whether we're willing to spend the money. But we haven't tasted anything yet. We haven't experienced the service or discovered whether the evening will live up to our expectations.

We're agreeing to a price before we know whether the experience will justify it.

It's not a hostage situation, but it's not like we can skip out after our first bite, either.

We spend so much time thinking about how to get customers through the door. Pricing, promotions, positioning, advertising. All important, of course. But for all that effort, are we giving the same attention to what happens after they choose us?

When businesses charge roughly the same price for comparable products, price alone tells consumers very little about which one to choose. The difference might come down to reputation, service, quality, or something else entirely. But what makes those customers want to come back?

A restaurant can advertise impeccable service, but that doesn't mean much if the experience doesn't deliver. A hotel can promise exceptional hospitality, but it's the small moments that make that promise believable.

Differentiation gives customers a reason to choose you. Experience gives them a reason to choose you again.

Because after all, the best experiences give us something more memorable than what we paid for them. Which brings me back to my pasta. And that poolside club sandwich.

I couldn't tell you what the sandwich cost. But I remember that it wasn't on the menu, that someone made it for me anyway, and how much I appreciated that small act of hospitality. As for the pasta, it was fine. But nothing about the evening made me particularly excited to return, and I found myself remembering the price more than the meal.

Funny how two meals can leave such different impressions.

One earned my loyalty. The other left me doing the math.

And I'm really bad at math.