My Best Sales Lesson This Week Came From a Customer Who Bought Nothing
After 23 years in foodservice sales, I thought I understood rejection.
I’ve lost accounts. I’ve been underbid. I’ve watched competitors walk through doors I thought belonged to me. I’ve spent weeks working prospects that went nowhere. I’ve heard every variation of “Let me think about it,” “Call me next week,” and “I’ll let you know.”
That comes with the territory.
But this week reminded me that there’s something considerably more frustrating than hearing no.
It’s giving someone every reasonable opportunity to say yes—and getting silence.
And strangely enough, that may have been the most valuable sales lesson I learned all week.
This One Was Different
I’ll call her Liz.
That happens to be her first name, but there are plenty of Lizes in the world, and the restaurant doesn’t matter. What matters is that Liz wasn’t some random cold call.
I knew her.
Years ago, when I worked for another foodservice distributor, I serviced her restaurant. I knew the operation when it was doing significant weekly business. I knew the products, the personalities, the challenges and the rhythm of the account.
So when I returned after being away from the market for a couple of years, I wasn’t walking through the door as a complete stranger.
There was history there.
At least I thought there was.
Recently, I drove roughly 45 miles each way to sit down with her again.
We talked for close to two hours.
Not a five-minute sales pitch.
Two hours.
We talked about what she was buying, where she was buying it, products she was having trouble with, pricing, distributors and areas where I might be able to help.
This is the part of foodservice sales that most people never see.
Before a single case ever gets loaded onto a truck, somebody is doing the homework.
Finding the item.
Comparing specifications.
Calling buyers.
Checking inventory.
Requesting samples.
Working pricing.
Driving to the restaurant.
Following up.
Trying to solve problems that technically aren’t even yours yet because the person isn’t even your customer.
I did all of that.
And I brought product.
A lot of product.
140 Pounds
I gave Liz a 40-pound bag of basmati rice.
Then a 50-pound bag of jasmine rice.
Then a 50-pound bag of black beans.
That’s 140 pounds of free product.
Not because I’m running a charity.
Because samples are part of selling food.
You want a customer to trust your product? Sometimes the easiest way is to put it in their kitchen and let the cooks use it.
Fair enough.
I also gave her the credit application.
She has my business information.
She has my phone number.
She has my email.
I worked through products she uses and pricing that could potentially make sense for her business.
And finally, I sent her the prices.
No pressure.
No dramatic sales pitch.
No “So, are you ready to switch?”
I sent the information.
And then?
Nothing.
Not:
Thank you.
Not:
I got it.
Not:
Let me look at it.
Not:
Your price is too high.
Not even:
No.
Just silence.
And that bothered me more than I expected it to.
Maybe It Bothered Me Because I Remembered What Used to Be There
This wasn’t really about 140 pounds of food.
It wasn’t about a credit application.
It wasn’t even about the sale.
It was about realizing that the relationship I remembered may no longer exist.
That’s a strange feeling when you’ve spent most of your career building a business through relationships.
Customers become familiar.
You learn their kitchens.
You know which cook is going to complain about the french fries.
You know who actually makes the buying decision even though three other people swear they do.
You know which customer wants a phone call and which one wants a text.
You learn their delivery days, their storage limitations, their menu, their personalities and sometimes their families.
And after enough years, you start believing some of that equity stays with you.
Maybe some of it does.
But not always.
Two years is apparently enough time for a lot to change.
People change.
Businesses change.
Buying habits change.
Loyalties change.
And perhaps the hardest one for a salesperson to accept:
Sometimes people remember everything you did for them and still don't owe you anything today.
That's business.
I understand that intellectually.
It still stings.
I Would Rather You Tell Me No
Seriously.
Tell me no.
Tell me my price sucks.
Tell me your current salesperson is your cousin.
Tell me your distributor gives you a rebate I can't touch.
Tell me you don't like my company's truck.
Tell me you don't like my face.
Whatever.
At least no is information.
A salesperson can do something with no.
You can adjust.
You can revisit later.
You can find another prospect.
You can stop spending money trying to solve a problem the customer doesn't actually want you to solve.
But “maybe” can consume an incredible amount of time.
So can silence.
Because salespeople are trained to follow up.
And follow up.
And follow up again.
We tell ourselves persistence separates the winners from the people who quit too early.
Sometimes that's true.
But there is a line between persistence and chasing.
This week reminded me that I need to know where that line is.
My Gas Tank Knows the Difference
There's another reality to field sales that doesn't show up in the motivational books.
Gasoline costs money.
Vehicles cost money.
Miles cost money.
Time costs money.
I work a geographically enormous territory in West Texas. A “quick visit” can become a 90-mile round trip without much effort.
So when I decide to chase an opportunity, I'm making an investment.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
The gasoline leaves my bank account whether the customer orders or not.
The odometer moves whether the customer fills out the application or not.
Two hours spent with one prospect are two hours I cannot spend with another.
A bag of rice handed to somebody is product that cannot be sampled somewhere else.
Eventually, every salesperson has to ask:
Is this opportunity still earning the investment I'm making in it?
That isn't bitterness.
That's territory management.
Then Something Funny Happened Sunday
I woke up discouraged.
Actually, discouraged isn't strong enough.
I was pissed off.
I had spent the week looking at opportunities that weren't becoming orders quickly enough.
People said they were going to buy and didn't.
People said they would get back to me and didn't.
Orders I expected didn't materialize.
And I started looking at the economics of everything I was doing.
The miles.
The gasoline.
The time.
The commission.
The promises.
I was sitting there thinking about all the people I was chasing when my phone rang.
It was another restaurant.
An old account I had been trying to reactivate.
They asked if I could come over.
They wanted to start ordering again.
I got out of bed.
I got dressed.
I drove over.
And I walked out with an order.
33 cases.
22 different lines.
About $1,910 in sales.
Roughly $200 in gross profit.
Approximately $72 in commission.
And a conversation about ordering every other week.
Was it a monster account?
No.
Did $72 change my life?
Of course not.
But driving away from that restaurant felt different.
Because for once that week, there was nothing left to interpret.
There was an order.
That's When the Lesson Hit Me
One customer had received 140 pounds of free product, pricing, an application, hours of my time and every possible way to contact me.
Silence.
Another customer picked up the phone and said:
Come over. We want to order.
That contrast hit me hard.
Because I realized how much energy salespeople can spend trying to convince people who have already been given everything they need to make a decision.
Sometimes we're so focused on winning that particular customer that we stop asking whether that customer is still worth winning right now.
That's different from giving up.
I'm not closing Liz's door.
If she calls tomorrow and wants to do business, I'll answer.
If she fills out the application, I'll process it.
If she wants to place an order, I'll sell it.
But I'm reaching the point where I don't need to keep knocking.
She knows where the door is too.
That's the lesson.
Customers Have Choices. So Do Salespeople.
We don't talk about that second part enough.
Of course customers have choices.
They should.
They can buy from whoever gives them the combination of price, product, service and relationship they value most.
But salespeople have finite resources.
We have finite time.
Finite samples.
Finite pricing flexibility.
Finite miles.
Finite gasoline.
Finite emotional energy.
So yes, the customer gets to decide whether I'm worth doing business with.
But eventually I get to decide whether an opportunity is worth continuing to pursue.
That's not arrogance.
It's allocation.
If I have five hours and two prospects, and one has everything I've given them sitting unanswered while another one is asking me to come over and write an order, where should those five hours go?
The answer becomes pretty obvious.
The Customer Who Bought Nothing Actually Gave Me Something
That's the irony.
Liz may never buy a case from me.
But this week she gave me something valuable anyway.
She reminded me that effort doesn't create obligation.
She reminded me that history doesn't guarantee future business.
She reminded me that samples don't guarantee gratitude.
She reminded me that a good conversation isn't a purchase order.
And she reminded me that eventually a salesperson has to stop measuring how much effort he has put into an opportunity and start measuring what the opportunity is giving back.
Sometimes the answer is potential.
Sometimes it's progress.
Sometimes it's an application.
Sometimes it's an order.
And sometimes it's silence.
Silence is data too.
Meanwhile, Business Was Sitting Somewhere Else
The story gets even better.
Later that same Sunday, while working with another existing customer, I discovered hundreds of dollars in paper and disposable products they were buying from another supplier.
Cups.
Takeout containers.
Portion cups.
Lids.
Bags.
Food trays.
Things my company sells too.
Suddenly I was comparing specifications and prices.
A product we'd sampled had already been approved.
Other products looked like potential conversions.
A couple would need to be specially sourced.
And there I was again—working an opportunity.
Except this one felt different.
There was something tangible in front of me.
A real invoice.
Real products.
Real quantities.
Real prices.
A real customer already buying from me.
While I had been emotionally focused on one person who wasn't responding, there was potentially more business sitting inside an account I already had.
That's sales too.
Sometimes the opportunity isn't behind the door you're pounding on.
Sometimes it's sitting quietly behind the door that's already open.
Until It Ships, It's Noise
I'm adopting a simpler philosophy.
A promise isn't revenue.
A sample isn't revenue.
A great meeting isn't revenue.
A credit application isn't revenue.
“I'll order Sunday” isn't revenue.
“I'll call you next week” isn't revenue.
And twenty-three years of experience doesn't magically turn a maybe into a yes.
When the cases ship, it's business.
Until then, it's opportunity.
There's nothing wrong with opportunity. Every account begins there.
But I can't pay for gasoline with opportunity.
I can't build a territory on promises.
And I can't allow the people who won't make a decision to consume all the time I need to find the people who will.
So Thank You, Liz
I mean that.
Not sarcastically.
Okay, maybe there's a little sarcasm in there.
You got some damn good rice and beans out of the deal.
But I got something too.
I got reminded that relationships have to exist in the present, not merely in my memory.
I got reminded that my time has value.
I got reminded that being a good salesperson doesn't mean chasing indefinitely.
And I got reminded that sometimes the most productive thing you can do with a prospect is stop talking and see whether they come looking for you.
Because if I've given you the products, the pricing, the application, my phone number, my email and every reasonable opportunity to do business with me, there's eventually only one thing left for me to give you:
Space.
The phone works both ways.
And while I'm waiting to see whether it rings, I've got other doors to knock on.
After all, somewhere out there is another customer who isn't going to tell me they'll order someday.
They're just going to order.
And after the week I've had?
I'll take that customer every damn time.
The views and experiences expressed in Greg's articles are his own and do not represent those of any current or former employer.
Comments