What's In Your Wallet?

on punchcards and loyalties

Hi there,

How many punchcards do you have in your wallet?

In case you aren't sure what I'm talking about, a punchcard is a business-card-sized way for coffeeshops, bakeries, or restaurants to keep you coming back for more: for more in-person, real-time, physical punches that lead not to bloody noses but to an eventual free coffee or pastry. If this is all somehow news to you, I highly recommend the wholesome experience of asking for a punchcard from your favorite neighborhood spot so that you too can have the pleasure of handing it over for a gratifying hole-punch. Some places just stamp loyalty cards with ink, which is not as sensorially satisfying, but either way, the freebie at the end is well worth the reward.

As for how many cards are currently in my wallet, the punchcards number four. They include two for the same place: Four and Twenty Blackbirds, my regular sit-down coffeeshop these days. If you must know, I forgot to bring my punchcard with me once, and so the barista (pie-rista?) started me on a new one. This means that the next time I order a hojicha tea, the punch holes from the two will be combined onto one, allowing me to relinquish the other card and thereby restore balance to my punchcard world. I suppose I'm glad it's only the beverages and not their famous pie slices that are eligible for a freebie, or I'd be playing a slightly more dangerous game— I certainly don't need a punchcard to convince me I need a slice of pie.

Another of my punchcards hails from Buttermilk Bakeshop, where I've purchased cakes for both my parents’ respective birthdays in the past 15 months (the inimitable pistachio honey: an absolute perfect banger of a cake!). However, because we don't make regular visits there, the free cookie this establishment promises me if I were to keep showing up, is sadly not in my immediate future.

The fourth punchcard in my wallet is from Bread Story, my go-to on the way to my Monday workplace. In addition to a tea or latte—for which I get punchcard cred—I often get their tomato-arugula-mozzarella sandwich on olive bread for lunch. Punchcards show us where our loyalties lie, and also how these loyalties are dependent on personal interactions with someone who offers to do the said punching. A couple Mondays back, the gal behind the counter at Bread Story recognized me:

You've been here a few times, right? Would you like a punchcard?

I don't think she could have understood how, for me in that very moment, more beautiful words simply could not have been uttered. I may have even gotten emotional as I responded: Yes, I would love that, thank you.

We introduced ourselves, and this past week Tess and I had a genuine interaction, acknowledging each other by name. So thrilled was I at this human-connection win—a respite from the rollercoaster that is my Monday morning headspace—that I forgot to ask for that all-important punch. (Let's hope I can make my case to get two punches in tomorrow—and not the upper-cut kind.) This is all to say, these punchcards collect in our wallets not just because of our love for a favorite café but because of the lovely people behind the counter acknowledging you—while also allowing that punchcard journey to begin.

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Punchcards aren’t destined to be mementos for safekeeping. In exchange for that free coffee, they are meant to be surrendered forever. My loyalty card history inevitably reflects phases I’ve gone through, the areas I’ve frequented, my various cravings—providing clues on the activities and contours of my life. Except I have no tangible evidence to show for that history. And sometimes those life phases don’t even last very long—no longer than the period between Daylight Savings Time ending and beginning again.

When I was in college, the coffeeshop Moxa was life as I knew it for the duration of a fall and winter. I discovered it late considering how often I’d frequented the block it called home, smack in the middle of the NYU Greenwich Village sprawl. Once I did, however, going there became my excuse to meet up with anyone I found worth spending time with, an incentive to sweeten the deal of uninspiring subway rides, and a companion to any book I read. I was deep in my hot-chocolate-or-bust phase; indeed, I survived my college days with little to no caffeine intake. I would go to Moxa exclusively for their hot chocolates, decadent drinks made with melted Ghirardelli chocolate.

Not to mention they had comfy armchairs and really personable staff. And these folks handed out punchcards. That year, Moxa’s hot chocolate became the highlight of my day, a tri-weekly or so indulgence at only $2.80 a cup. I lost count of punchcards handed in for free drinks, meetings with friends, cacao-enhanced train commutes. Its punchcards gave me a sense of routine and purpose.

But then one day, Moxa was gone. It was a day just like any other in March: cold, pale, yet somewhat sunny…nothing a perfect combination of melted chocolate and steamed milk couldn’t fix. As I walked towards West 3rd Street, I pulled out my Moxa punchcard from my wallet. There was either only one hole left to be punched, or it was the day I'd swap it in for a freebie—I can't quite remember anymore. At any rate, I looked forward to an indulgence I could count on before heading back to the library.

Instead of encountering Moxa’s front door entrance, I nearly ran headfirst into a metal graffiti-covered gate, indicating its closure for the day. Baffled, I checked the time on my phone. Despite Moxa's limited hours of operation, which I had committed to memory, I knew it wasn’t that I’d arrived at a wrong time. I walked away disappointed.

The next day, I went back, but to no avail and only metal to greet me. Then, eventually a sign made it official: their lease had run out. For several days, I walked around the NYU campus, dazed and restless. People who knew about my Moxa fondness would ask me if I was doing okay. Friends would tell me they were sorry for my loss, assuring me that I’d get over it soon enough. I would find myself pulling out my Moxa card more often than not, tracing the punch marks with my finger, wondering what might have been.

I eventually misplaced that punchcard, indulged in hot chocolates elsewhere...and forewent my extreme hot chocolate obsession. Moxa still lives on: in my heart and in the archive of Yelp. I don't remember how the Moxa phase began, but it only hit me once it was over.

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In the process of my trip down punchcard memory lane this past week, I unexpectedly learned that a more recent favorite establishment has shuttered its doors. Not a coffeeshop or bakery but my family's go-to Chinese restaurant, Shanghai has—for years—had a punchcard system where after a certain amount of money spent, you were eligible for free soup dumplings. Since dumplings are not a family favorite—lest pork becomes the unwelcome antagonist in our dinner story—it was our more regularly enjoyed spicy cold noodle dish that would be taken off our order. Shanghai was famously the restaurant where my mom earned her moniker, Sameera "No Pork," because of her insistence one time on a phone order to triple check that each dish would be pork-free. When she called the restaurant back to do so, the employee on the other end asked her if this was Sameera "No Pork" on the line.

At Shanghai, you would get a hole punch in the shape of a cat—in fact, they had hole punchers deploying various shapes of cat heads and cats in different stretching positions. The walls of the restaurant were decorated with these cards and their feline-shaped punctures, evidence of its many loyal customers’ many visits. It was upon looking up this restaurant online to see if I could find a photo of these walls that I discovered it had ceased to exist—sometime in the past few months since we last ate there. A Google location no longer comes up in a search, Yelpers have "reported this location has closed," and Shanghai’s website has no active pages for ordering. But yet again, its existence persists in the Yelp archive, as does a video of its cat punchcard-filled walls.

I called my parents to give them the heads-up that this favorite dinner spot has closed down. (Spicy Cold Noodle Gods forbid that they first learn this sad news from reading this newsletter!) My dad still has a Shanghai punchcard in his wallet. We were only one cat into our latest punchcard journey; or, from the opposite perspective, we were still four cats away from our free noodle reward. We have yet to investigate why the restaurant closed. Was it because the rent got too high? Are the two brothers who run the place—getting up there in age—doing alright, health-wise? Did they simply decide it was time to retire?

I'll miss the punchcard walls at Shanghai, where proof of our many dining experiences, along with those of many other customers, became an integral part of the restaurant’s ambience. But once more it has come to pass that a lone wallet punchcard represents business that will forever remain unfinished. This punchcard—never designed be kept—will officially take the rare path of living on as a memento.

Have a wonderful week, and until soon,

Insia

P.S. Please note: this newsletter edition features me doing a voiceover for those interested in an audio option!