The democracy behind Valentine's Day
it doesn't get more romantic than fairness
Can romance be bought?
Why yes.
But is this happiness? Depends.
In theory, money spent on experiences as opposed to stuff is supposed to make you happier. Memories can be relived whereas possessions lose their appeal over time. Financial psychologists claim that if money doesn’t buy you happiness, you’re spending it wrong.
But what if the line between experiences and stuff is liminal?
And before you ask me what any of this has to do with democracy, I want you to think about what makes something covetable.
The narrative of conquest
Every year in Seoul, there’s a box of chocolates that gets sold out within a minute.
I’m not exaggerating.
Every year, there’s a horde of people staring into their computers/smartphones, fingers hovering above the screen—poised, ready to strike at the turn of the hour.
When the clock hits twelve, a silent scramble ensues. Winners emerge with a reservation confirmation. Losers sit staring into a screen that reads “sold out”.
Behind this chocolate bonanza is Piaf, a chocolatier tucked into the streets of Sinsa. The brand is renowned for their limited edition Valentine’s day chocolate that is reinvented year after year. They create chocolate under the motto “there is a moment in life when you need chocolate (인생에는 초콜릿이 필요한 순간이 있습니다”). Cheers to that.
Think of Piaf’s limited edition chocolate box as the fantasy bra from the now-obsolete Victoria’s Secret fashion shows. While the box is not encrusted in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and whatnot, it, along with the chocolate it contains, epitomizes human desire. Many people lust after Piaf’s chocolate, but only a few can actually have it. The brand produces 2,400 boxes every year, which is not enough to sate the nine million people living in Seoul. Even if only 2% of Seoulites (180,000 people) wanted to snag up a box of Piaf, they’d still face intense competition.
While the box is not encrusted in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and whatnot, it, along with the chocolate it contains, epitomizes human desire.
Piaf is quite aware of this shortage. In fact, they capitalize on it by indirectly espousing the narrative “love is a conquest” via their reservation system. (*caveat: I’m not implying that Piaf is purposefully producing less chocolate than they can to offset the demand-supply ratio—that I don’t know. What I can say is that Piaf benefits from their status of “hard-to-get” chocolate).
Making a reservation for Piaf’s limited edition Valentine’s Day chocolate (wow what a mouthful) is truly a feat. You need swift hands, around sixty dollars (or 70,000 KRW), oh and a lot of luck. In a sense, buying Valentine’s day chocolate isn’t simply a purchase; it’s transformed into an experience that taps into our instincts to compete and conquer. This isn’t any different from how our ancestors vied to secure resources when they were scarce. Acquisition spells out triumph. Therefore, when people compete to procure a box of Piaf’s special edition chocolate, they’re essentially taking part in an artificially constructed journey of conquest that culminates in consumption.
I use the term “artificial” because competition over Piaf chocolate is, to an extent, evoked and sustained by the brand’s highly limited reservation system. A part of me questions whether people would lust after Piaf’s limited edition chocolate to the extent that they do if it were made more available to a larger audience. I’m not proposing that Piaf’s staff turn their atelier into a factory—this probably goes against their philosophy. What I’m saying is that Piaf’s current system of having buyers strive and struggle to make a purchase reinforces the rarity of the product. This rarity, in turn, further buoys the brand up onto a pedestal that signals to customers that Piaf’s offerings should be tenaciously acquired, not passively bought.
Scarcity born from democracy
The fact that anyone who wishes to purchase a box of limited edition chocolate must partake in a brutal online competition points to an interesting observation: Piaf’s reservation system is democratic in nature.
It doesn’t matter if you have enough money to purchase the business itself. If you don’t succeed in the reservation battle, no limited edition chocolate. Simple as that. From a certain angle, it’s ironic how a democratic system, which underpins equality in opportunity, engenders a scarcity that is commonly associated with luxury. Every year, the “losers” from the reservation scramble beseech the brand to revamp their system. They argue that those who aren’t endowed with lightening fast fingers or blessed with cupid’s grace should also be granted a chance to reserve a box of limited edition Piaf’s. The brand’s official response to such requests is that they have yet to think up of a better system that is as fair as the existing one.
That point aside, what’s noteworthy is how Piaf’s exclusivity originates from a democratic system. As long as you’re willing to swallow the $60 price tag, which is comparatively more affordable than a $6,000 Chanel bag, nothing bars you from attempting to make a reservation for Piaf’s special edition chocolate. Agency resides in the hands of customers. In contrast, luxury brands such as Hermes build an image of exclusivity by selectively offering customers a Kelly or Birkin at random moments that are decided by the sales associate. The brand wields agency over who gets access to what. Such exclusivity stems from a discretionary system that is blackbox-like in its lack of transparency.
To sum up, Piaf’s transparent yet ultra-competitive system equalizes opportunities for purchase in a manner that deviates from traditional luxury brands. Ironically, it is on the grounds of such democracy that Piaf maintains its reputation as one of Seoul’s most covetable chocolatiers.
Commodities transformed
Let’s go back to the questions I posed earlier. What happens when there’s a grey area between experience and stuff? And can happiness be bought?
Piaf’s first come first serve reservation system converts the act of making a purchase into an experience of fulfillment. Buying a box of Piaf’s limited edition chocolate amounts to more than just a few clicks online. The act becomes imbued with symbolic meaning through the tumultuous process of beating out other chocolate-craving users. The thrill of successfully reserving a box of limited edition Piaf is the modern day equivalent of hunting down a boar during the stone ages. While our aesthetic tastes may have evolved over the course of centuries, our primordial instincts remain intact. We feel fulfilled when we are able to provide for our loved ones.
As such, we derive happiness from a sense of fulfillment—even if such fulfillment is artificially manufactured by a limited system—as this state implies that we have acquired something of value. Trans-historically, value has been paired with scarcity and the language of scarcity has been encoded into our DNA since birth. Thus, commodities that are acquired through competition are transposed into an experience that taps directly into our emotions of accomplishment and happiness.
So when your date hands you a box of chocolate on Valentine’s Day, thank them wholeheartedly (even if it’s not a box of Piaf’s). After all, what’s so special about a gift if it’s not a fulfilling memory that crystallizes the moment of happiness?