The Internet Has Rediscovered Being a Regular

Somewhere along the way, becoming a regular became something of a novelty.

We started treating the latest restaurant opening like a trophy. A table to secure, a picture for our followers, something to talk about when we next met the neighbours. The feed had already decided where we should eat before we'd even left the house, and off we went, joining a thousand other supposedly early adopters in a queue to experience something we'd all apparently discovered first.

The internet taught us to find a new café every weekend, photograph the pastry before eating it and judge a restaurant by the length of its queue or how busy the car park is. The algorithm had an endless supply of somewhere else we ought to be. Somewhere newer, hotter, harder to get into. Even Sunday lunch was in danger of becoming a competitive sport.

Now something rather curious is happening. A generation brought up on discovery feeds is rediscovering the pleasure of going back to the same place, ordering the same thing and having somebody remember their name. Naturally, the internet has given it a name: regularmaxxing.

We used to call it going to our local.

The term began circulating earlier this year, describing a growing enthusiasm among younger people for familiar cafés, neighbourhood bars and the small pleasures of becoming a recognised face. Foresight Factory has identified a broader shift towards proximity, suggesting that people are placing greater value on local connections, trusted communities and the places they know. Its research found that 49% of consumers across 22 countries now consider where they live important to their identity, compared with 43% in 2021.

It would be easy to laugh at the idea of an entire generation discovering the local pub, or the sense of community that some food halls now offer: somewhere to eat, chat and drink. But perhaps that's missing the point. When so much of our cultural life is organised around novelty, attention and the next thing, choosing to return somewhere familiar is a rather interesting change of direction.

Last week, having Sunday lunch in a pub in the countryside, something dawned on me. The pleasure wasn't simply the food, although a good Sunday roast is a fine place to start. It was the room, the atmosphere, the smells coming from the kitchen, the familiar sound of a pub going about its Sunday business. The gentle collision of conversations, coats draped over chairs, people arriving from walks and settling in for an afternoon that didn't appear to have much of an agenda.

There is something life-affirming about all of that. The conversation with somebody waiting at the bar, the passing exchange with a stranger, the feeling that you can be part of a place without having to announce your arrival. You might come back next week, or the week after. You might even find yourself looking forward to seeing the same faces.

It reminded me of something else.

For years, through my agency, I worked on creating the imagery, film and stories that helped heritage brands, including Barbour, connect with younger generations. Much of that work was about a way of life. The dog walk on a cold morning, wrapping up against the weather, escaping to the beach, the long motorcycle ride to the coast with little more in mind than getting away from it all.

We weren't simply photographing clothes or products. We were trying to capture a feeling. The anticipation of heading outdoors, the pleasure of getting somewhere, the warmth of coming back in. Those moments were real to us. We understood them, experienced them and knew why they mattered.

And, of course, we turned them into content that sold lots of clothing.

There's an interesting contradiction in that. We were helping to create an image of a lifestyle that people might aspire to, perhaps even encouraging a younger audience to rediscover something older generations had always enjoyed. The romance of the countryside, of the outdoors, of belonging somewhere and having traditions that meant something.

I still believe in the power of those stories. A photograph or a short, emotive film can make you want to get up and go somewhere. It can encourage you to try something new, discover a landscape or find a place you might otherwise have missed. That's part of what makes creative work so compelling.

But somewhere between creating an image that inspires people to live differently and a culture in which every lived experience becomes another image to share, we seem to have lost a little of the plot.

The internet may have told us where to go, but it's the phone that's changed what happens when we get there.

We've become so accustomed to carrying a camera, an audience and a publishing platform in our pockets that reaching for it is almost second nature. The food arrives, out comes the phone. The view opens up, out comes the phone. A dog walk, a pub lunch, a weekend escape: even the most ordinary afternoon has the potential to become a small production.

And I wonder whether, in our enthusiasm to capture a moment, we're slowly losing the pleasure of actually being in it. There's a difference between making memories and collecting evidence that we've had a good time. It isn't that photographs are bad. I've spent a good part of my working life making them. It's that the experience itself can begin to feel like something we're arranging for the camera.

The irony isn't lost on me. We created images that encouraged people to go out and experience life. Now we're all carrying the means to make those images ourselves, and sometimes it feels as though we've become our own unpaid marketing department.

And perhaps that's what makes this return to the local so interesting.

Not because younger people have suddenly invented the pleasure of a familiar place, but because they appear to be questioning the idea that every good experience must be something new, and every new experience must be shared.

Of course, this creates a rather awkward question for restaurants, pubs and the wider hospitality industry. How do you attract people in a world where being noticed, photographed and shared has become such an important part of being discovered?

For years, restaurants have learned to live with the camera. Farm shops have understood the power of a beautifully curated experience too; Daylesford, one of my early clients, has done this particularly well for years. Dishes designed to catch the eye, interiors built around recognisable moments, elaborate presentations that practically demand a phone before a fork. The influencer arrives, the room fills, the queue forms and everybody hopes the attention translates into a successful business.

And sometimes it does.

I'm not suggesting we abandon discovery or stop celebrating interesting restaurants, places or spaces. I love a new opening as much as anyone. There's an excitement about experiencing an ambitious new idea, meeting the people behind it and discovering something wonderful. Social media has helped countless independent businesses find audiences they might never otherwise have reached.

But a queue isn't necessarily a community. And a thousand photographs of the same dish don't make a restaurant somewhere people want to return to.

A restaurant can become famous overnight. Becoming somebody's local takes considerably longer.

It requires all the things that don't necessarily perform particularly well on a screen. Consistency, familiarity, generosity, personality. The ability to remember somebody's usual drink, to recognise the dog, to know when a customer wants to talk and when they would rather be left alone. The strange chemistry that develops between a place and the people who keep coming back.

There's a commercial argument here too. The guests who return week after week are often worth far more to a business than the passing crowd who arrive because somebody famous posted a photograph. The spectacular opening might create the headlines, but the ordinary Tuesday keeps the lights on.

Perhaps hospitality's most valuable audience isn't always the one with the largest following. It's the one that keeps coming through the door.

There's another part of this that I find increasingly appealing: the idea of keeping something to yourself.

A restaurant you love but don't feel compelled to recommend to everybody. A pub where you know you'll get a decent pint and a good conversation. A particular table, a familiar walk, a place that has accumulated memories rather than likes.

We have become remarkably good at giving other people access to our lives. Where we eat, where we travel, what we wear, how we spend our weekends. Even the most ordinary moments are now capable of becoming small public performances, and the algorithms are always ready to reward us for another one.

Yet there's something rather wonderful about spending two hours over lunch with friends, family or neighbours and coming away with nothing more than a good memory.

No need to photograph the roast potatoes or the mocktail from three different angles. No hastily assembled collection of hashtags. No quiet glance at the phone to see whether somebody has liked the occasion while it's still happening.

Just lunch. Or dinner.

And then perhaps a walk with the dog, a little fresh air, or a move to the local for another conversation. An afternoon that unfolds without being recorded, edited or turned into evidence of a life well lived.

I think this is becoming my own definition of luxury. Not necessarily the expensive restaurant, the impossible reservation or the pop-up everybody is talking about. Those things have their place. But perhaps the new luxury isn't being somewhere nobody else can go. It's being somewhere without feeling the need to tell everybody you've been.

To be fully present, to enjoy the company and the surroundings, to have a conversation that goes somewhere unexpected and perhaps to forget about the phone altogether.

It isn't about rejecting technology. I write about the internet, food culture and the algorithms that shape our decisions, so I'd be in a rather difficult position if I suggested we all throw our phones into the sea. The feed can introduce us to wonderful places and people. It just doesn't have to accompany us everywhere once we've found them.

And there's something rather poetic about the internet leading a generation back to an experience that existed perfectly well before it.

Regularmaxxing may be the latest name for it, and no doubt somebody is already working out how to monetise the movement. There will be apps, loyalty schemes, guides to becoming a regular and probably a few rather expensive sweatshirts announcing that you've managed to achieve it.

Meanwhile, the person behind the bar will still be pulling the same pint, the Sunday roast will still arrive when it's ready, and the sandwich shop, the local bakery and the deli will still have their familiar faces. Somebody will ask whether you're having your usual.

Perhaps we don't need another place to be seen. Perhaps we need somewhere we feel we belong.

And the best part of all is that nobody else gets to see it.