One more in the bag

On a corner in Shubra there is a falafel shop with a habit nobody wrote down. When you order a sandwich to take away, the man at the counter drops one extra falafel, loose, into the paper bag.

It costs him very little. Over a year, across every bag, it is not nothing either. A careful owner could make the case for stopping. The portion is fair without it. Nobody is counting.

Down the road, another place has gone the other way. The bread is a little thinner than it was. The salad is a little sparer. Each change was too small to notice on its own, and each one made sense on paper: same price, slightly less inside, and if people are hungry again sooner, perhaps they come back sooner.

For a while, they do. But there are a dozen other sandwiches within walking distance, and the moment a neighbour opens with fuller ones, there is nothing holding anybody. The first shop is different. People walk past two others to reach it. They send their children there. They mention the extra one when they recommend it, as if it were a small secret they are letting you in on.

When a customer can switch in a few steps, a little less only buys a little time. A little more buys something that lasts much longer: the feeling that this place is on your side.

That loose falafel at the bottom of the bag is not a cost. It is the cheapest loyalty anyone on that street will ever earn.