CHAPTER 3
To Italians, Espresso Is Like an Aria

Some men see things as they are and say “Why?”
I dream things that never were, and say “Why not?”

—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW,

OFTEN QUOTED BY ROBERT F. KENNEDY

IF YOU SAY YOU NEVER HAD A CHANCE,

PERHAPS YOU NEVER TOOK A CHANCE

I couldn’t stop thinking about Starbucks. Although it was much smaller than the multinationals I had been working for in New York, it was so much more intriguing, like a jazz tune you can’t get out of your head. I could see so many ways I could contribute.

The next time Jerry Baldwin and his wife, Jane, were in New York, Sheri and I invited them out to dinner and the theater. We all hit it off. On a lark, I asked him: “Do you think there’s any way I could fit into Starbucks?”

He was just beginning to ponder the need to hire trained professionals, so he was willing to think about it. We discussed ways I could help with sales and marketing and merchandising.

It took me a year to convince Jerry Baldwin to hire me. The idea appealed to him, but others in the company were nervous about bringing in someone they regarded as a high-powered New Yorker. It’s always a risk to take on a manager who hasn’t grown up with the values of the company.

Some days, I couldn’t believe I was even entertaining the notion. Taking a job at Starbucks would mean giving up that $75,000 a year job, the prestige, the car, and the co-op, and for what? Moving 3,000 miles across the country to join a tiny outfit with 5 coffee stores didn’t make sense to a lot of my friends and family. My mother was especially concerned.

“You’re doing well, you have a future,” she argued. “Don’t give it up for a small company nobody’s ever heard of.”

Over the next year, I found reasons to get back to Seattle several times. I always made sure I had time to spend with Jerry. We got to be comfortable with each other, sharing thoughts about merchandise Starbucks might carry, products that should or shouldn’t bear the brand name, ways to build up customer loyalty. On each visit, I came prepared with a long list of ideas, and listening to Jerry critique them helped me understand his vision for Starbucks.

Jerry confided in me about a notion he had that Starbucks could one day expand outside Seattle. He was considering opening a store in Portland, Oregon, the nearest big U.S. city. He knew the company could be bigger, but seemed ambivalent about the changes growth might bring. I told him it was a great opportunity.

The more I thought about it, the more promising an expansion seemed. Starbucks had such tremendous potential. All my friends in New York were wowed by the coffee once they tasted it. Why wouldn’t people all over America have the same reaction? Surely, the market was bigger than just a few thousand coffee lovers in the Northwest. Jerry had such a missionary zeal; it made sense to spread Starbucks’ excitement about coffee beans beyond Seattle. At that time, I knew of no other high-end coffee-bean stores in New York or any other city.

Although I wasn’t bold enough to become an entrepreneur just yet, part of my fascination with Starbucks was the chance to take a hand in shaping a growing company. I was willing to take a salary cut if I could get a small piece of equity in a business with great promise. I had never owned a share of stock in anything, but I knew that if Jerry would give me even a small share in Starbucks, I would channel all my passion and energy into this job as I never had before.

Sheri liked the idea. We were ready to get married and settle down, and she could see how excited I was about Seattle and Starbucks. Even though it would mean a setback in her career as a designer, she, too, was ready to leave New York. As the daughter of an Ohio entrepreneur, she understood instinctively the value of taking risks and following your dreams.

As the months passed, I pursued Jerry more than he pursued me. We started talking about a job at Starbucks in which I would be head of marketing and oversee the retail stores. I told him I would want a small piece of equity, and he seemed receptive to the suggestion.

In the spring of 1982, Jerry and Gordon invited me to San Francisco to meet their silent partner, a shareholder and board member named Steve Donovan, over dinner. I was convinced that after all my lobbying, I had the job all but sewn up. I figured I would fly back to New York with an offer in hand.

This dinner, for me, was the capstone of a job courtship with Jerry that had lasted nearly a year, so I was determined it would go well. I dressed in one of my best suits and walked from my hotel to the restaurant, a high-end Italian place called Donatello’s, uphill from the financial district.

I passed the restaurant and circled the block once, to pump up my confidence, despite a light rain. In a way, I had waited my whole career for this dinner. I knew Jerry had told them I had ideas for growing the company, and this dinner was a chance for Steve and Gordon to assess my capabilities and how well I might fit into the company.

Donatello’s was an odd choice, more stuffy than I had expected, with white linen tablecloths and waiters in bow ties. I was waiting at the table when Jerry, Gordon, and Steve arrived. Steve was a tall, blond, classically handsome man. The three of them were wearing sports jackets, less formal than I was, but since they were all at least ten years older, I was glad I had dressed formally.

The dinner went well, exceptionally well. I liked Steve, an intellectual whose interests ranged from executive recruiting to research on meditation. Like Jerry and Gordon, he had traveled widely, read a great deal, and had a lot of interesting insights. Still, I was confident, as I talked, that I was impressing him. I kept glancing at Jerry, and I could see approval in his eyes. After four years of college in the Midwest, I knew how to tone down the New York in me, chatting easily about Italy and Sweden and San Francisco over appetizers and soup.

We ordered a bottle of Barolo and were soon conversing like longtime friends. When the main course came, though, I switched the subject to Starbucks. “You’ve got a real jewel,” I said. I told them how I had served Starbucks coffee to my friends in New York, how enthused they had been by its dark, rich taste. New Yorkers would love Starbucks coffee. So would people in Chicago, Boston, Washington, everywhere.

Starbucks could be so much bigger, I argued. It could grow beyond the Northwest, up and down the West Coast. It could even, perhaps, become a national company. It could have dozens of stores, maybe even hundreds. The Starbucks name could become synonymous with great coffee—a brand that guaranteed world-class quality.

“Think of it,” I said. “If Starbucks opened stores across the United States and Canada, you could share your knowledge and passion with so many more people. You could enrich so many lives.”

By the end of the meal, I could tell I had charmed them with my youthful enthusiasm and energy. They smiled at one another and seemed inspired by my vision. We parted, shaking hands, and I nodded and congratulated myself as I walked back to the hotel. I called Sheri, waking her up. “It was fantastic,” I told her. “I think everything is on track.”

Even with the three-hour time difference, I had trouble sleeping that night. Every aspect of my life was about to change. I started envisioning how I would give notice, where Sheri and I would get married, how we’d move to Seattle. Perhaps we could buy a house with a yard. And Starbucks—even the name rang with magic. I was under its spell already.

Twenty-four hours later, I was back at my desk in New York, and when my secretary told me Jerry was on the line, I reached for the phone eagerly.

“I’m sorry, Howard. I have bad news.” I couldn’t believe the somber tone of his voice, or the words. The three of them had talked it over, and decided not to hire me.

“But why?”

“It’s too risky, too much change.” He paused, clearly pained at the message he was having to deliver. “Your plans sound great, but that’s just not the vision we have for Starbucks.”

Instead of charming them, I had spooked them. They feared that I would be disruptive. I wasn’t going to fit. I felt like a bride, halfway down the aisle, watching her groom back out the side door.

I was too shell-shocked to think clearly. I saw my whole future flash in front of me and then crash and burn.

That night I went home and poured my despair out to Sheri. I still believed so much in the future of Starbucks that I couldn’t accept “no” as a final answer. This was, I thought, a turning point in my life. It had to happen; I had to join Starbucks. I wanted to convey to Jerry what was in my heart.

The next day, I called Jerry back.

“Jerry, you’re making a terrible mistake,” I said. “After all this time, we owe it to each other to isolate the issues. What exactly is the reason?”

Very calmly, we talked it over. The concern was this: The partners did not want to give me license to change the company. They worried that by hiring me they would be committing themselves to a new direction for Starbucks. They also thought my style and energy would clash with the existing culture.

I drew upon all the passion I had about Starbucks, about coffee, about this opportunity, and spoke from my deepest convictions. I told him how much I could offer, from my professional sales and marketing skills to the broad perspective I had developed managing a national sales force for Hammarplast. I was used to playing on a larger playing field and could plan and execute whatever expansion strategy we mutually agreed upon.

“Jerry,” I protested, “this isn’t about me. It’s about you. The destiny of Starbucks is at stake. We’ve talked so much about what Starbucks can be. It’s your company. It’s your vision. You’re the only one who can achieve it. Somebody has to be courageous here, and it’s you. Don’t let them talk you out of something that you believe in your heart.”

Jerry heard me out, then fell silent. “Let me sleep on it,” he said. “I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

Perhaps he slept; I didn’t.

The next morning, I picked up the phone on the first ring. “You were right,” he said. “I’m sorry for the twenty-four-hour impasse. We’re going forward. You have the job, Howard, and you have my commitment. When can you come?”

A whole new world had just opened up in front of my eyes, like the scene in The Wizard of Oz when everything changes from black and white to color. This barely imaginable dream was really going to happen.

Although I would have to take a steep cut in pay, Jerry agreed to give me a small equity share. I would own a tiny slice of Starbucks’ future.

In the fifteen years since then, I’ve often wondered: What would have happened had I just accepted his decision? Most people, when turned down for a job, just go away.

Similar scenarios have subsequently played out in my life, in other settings and with other issues. So many times, I’ve been told it can’t be done. Again and again, I’ve had to use every ounce of perseverance and persuasion I can summon to make things happen.

Life is a series of near misses. But a lot of what we ascribe to luck is not luck at all. It’s seizing the day and accepting responsibility for your future. It’s seeing what other people don’t see, and pursuing that vision, no matter who tells you not to.

In daily life, you get so much pressure from friends and family and colleagues, urging you to take the easy way, to follow the prevailing wisdom, that it can be difficult not to simply accept the status quo and do what’s expected of you. But when you really believe—in yourself, in your dream—you just have to do everything you possibly can to take control and make your vision a reality.

No great achievement happens by luck.

A BLACK CLOUD APPEARS

Now that I finally had the offer, I had to start planning for my move. My main concern, of course, was Sheri. “This is an opportunity I can’t pass up,” I told her. “I want you to go with me to Seattle for a visit. Before you say yes or no, you need to see the city and experience it for yourself.”

We flew out for a weekend and once again, spring was at its peak, with the azaleas in full bloom and explosions of color bursting all over the city. Sheri liked Seattle, liked Starbucks, and was thrilled to see the Baldwins again, who were warm and generous with their time and advice. They knew volumes about food and wine, had interesting stories to tell of their world travels, and shared their knowledge about a wide range of subjects we were just beginning to explore. Sheri came back as certain as I was that this was the right thing to do.

Both of us recognized, though, that moving to Seattle would mean a career sacrifice for Sheri. New York was a world center for interior design, and Seattle far from it. But in the back of her mind she had always expected to move out of the city some day. She wanted to have children and raise them in a different environment. Few women would have willingly given up a promising career to move 3,000 miles, to a city where they didn’t know a soul, because their husband wanted to join a small coffee company. But she didn’t hesitate. She supported me 100 percent, as she’s always done. That constant encouragement has been vital for me.

Although I was eager to start work at Starbucks, I decided to take some time off first. On a shoestring budget, we rented a small cottage for the summer in the Hamptons, where we had met. We were married in July and enjoyed the romantic interlude.

Our plan was to pack up our Audi and drive 3,000 miles across the country, with our golden retriever in the back seat. We were to leave in mid-August and would arrive in Seattle by Labor Day weekend.

We had already started loading the car to leave the following day when my mother called with terrible news: My father had lung cancer and was expected to live only a year. I was shaken to the core. He was only sixty years old, and my brother, Michael, was still in college. It would be a harsh struggle with a devastating disease. My mother had come to rely on my strength. How could she get through this period with me in Seattle?

It was one of those moments when you feel like you’re being ripped into two jagged pieces. I had already committed to be in Seattle by the beginning of September. Yet how could I leave now? I discussed it with my family, and it seemed I had no choice. I had to go.

I went to see my dad in the hospital. I had to say good-bye to him, not knowing when or if I’d see him again. My mother sat at his bedside, crying. She was frightened, but she tried hard not to show it. It might have been the moment for a heart-to-heart with my father, but we had never developed that sort of relationship.

“Go to Seattle,” my dad said. “You and Sheri have a new life to start there. We can handle things here.”

As I sat with him, two emotions were warring in my heart—overwhelming sadness and unresolved bitterness. My father had never been a good provider for the family. He had stumbled through a series of mind-numbing jobs, always chafing against the system. And now his life might be ending, before he had taken control of it.

I squeezed his hand and said an awkward good-bye.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” I said to my mother as we waited for the elevator.

“Howard, you have to go,” she insisted.

I felt as if I were sinking, as all the strength and energy and optimism seeped out of my body.

When the elevator came, my mother gave me a hug and said firmly, “You must go.”

I stepped inside, and as I turned, I saw my mother’s puffy red face, bravely trying to smile. As soon as the doors clicked shut, I fell apart.

Sheri and I kept to our plan of driving to Seattle, but a cloud of worry and dread traveled with us. I called home at every stop. Gradually we learned that my father’s prognosis was better than we thought. The tension eased, and we could throw our hearts into creating a new life together in this city we had barely started to explore.

IMMERSE YOURSELF IN THE CULTURE

We got to Seattle in the midst of a lively annual outdoor arts and music festival called Bumbershoot. The mood was upbeat and wild and adventurous.

We had picked out a house in the Capitol Hill part of Seattle with a big deck, but because it wasn’t ready, we spent that first week with the Baldwins. They pampered us, cooking gourmet dinners every night, driving Sheri around the city. They even put up with Jonas, our 100-pound golden retriever, who took to swimming in their pool.

Although it took Sheri about a year to feel really at home in Seattle, it took me about twenty minutes. At Starbucks, I hit the ground running.

When I start something, I immerse myself totally in it. In those early months I spent all of my waking hours in the stores, working behind the counter, meeting the Starbucks people, tasting different kinds of coffee, and talking with customers. Jerry was committed to providing me with very strong training on the coffee side.

The last piece of my education—and definitely the highlight—was learning how to roast coffee. They didn’t let me do that until December. I spent a week at the roaster, listening for the second pop, examining the color of the beans, learning to taste the subtle differences among various roasts. It was the fitting end of an intensive training. I felt as if I had been knighted.

I probably surprised the people at Starbucks with how impassioned I was about coffee. When I worked in the store behind the counter, they were constantly testing my knowledge and how much I believed. I always had a good palate at blind tastings. Word got out.

Not surprisingly, there was resentment from some members of the company that Jerry Baldwin had hired an outsider. I could sense that I had to prove myself—prove that I was worthy of the gestalt of Starbucks. I tried hard to blend in. For a tall, high-energy New Yorker in a quiet, understated city, that wasn’t easy. I was used to dressing in expensive suits, and at Starbucks the informal dress code tended toward turtlenecks and Birkenstocks. It took a while to build trust. Still, I was hired to do a job, and I was overflowing with ideas for the company. I wanted to make a positive impact.

The atmosphere of Starbucks in those days was friendly and low-key, but we worked very hard. Christmas was our busiest season, and everybody in the office went to the stores to pitch in and help. One day I was working in the Pike Place store during the busy season. The store was packed, and I was in place behind the counter, ringing up sales, filling bags with coffee beans.

Suddenly, someone shouted, “Hey! That guy just headed out with some stuff!” Apparently, a customer had grabbed two expensive coffeemakers, one in each hand, and headed out the door.

I jumped over the counter and started running. Without stopping to wonder whether the guy had a gun, I chased him up a steep, cobblestone street, yelling “Drop that stuff! Drop it!”

The thief was so startled that he dropped both the pieces he had stolen and ran away. I picked them up and walked back into the store holding the coffeemakers up like trophies. Everybody applauded. That afternoon, I went back to the roasting plant, where my office was, and discovered that the staff had strung up a huge banner for me, which read: “Make my day.”

The more I got to know the company, the more I appreciated the passion behind it. But I gradually noticed one weakness. While the coffee was unquestionably the best it could be, the service sometimes came across as a little arrogant. That attitude grew out of the high degree of pride Starbucks had in the superiority of our coffee. Customers who relished in discovering new tastes and blends enjoyed discussing their newfound knowledge with our people, but I noticed that first-time customers occasionally felt ignorant or slighted.

I wanted to bridge that gap. I identified so closely with Starbucks that any flaw in Starbucks felt like my own personal weakness. So I worked with employees on customer-friendly sales skills and developed materials that would make it easy for customers to learn about coffee. Still, I figured there must be a better way to make great coffee accessible to more than a small elite of gourmet coffee drinkers.

VISION IS WHAT THEY CALL IT WHEN

OTHERS CAN’T SEE WHAT YOU SEE

There’s no better place to truly savor the romance of life than Italy. That’s where I found the inspiration and vision that have driven my own life, and the course of Starbucks, from quiet Seattle to national prominence.

I discovered that inspiration in the spring of 1983, a time when I wasn’t even particularly looking for it. I had been at Starbucks for a year, and the company had sent me to Milan to attend an international housewares show. I traveled alone and stayed at a low-budget hotel near the convention center.

The minute I stepped out the door and into the sunshine of a warm autumn day, the spirit of Italy washed over me. I didn’t speak a word of Italian, but I felt I belonged.

Italians have an unparalleled appreciation for the fine pleasures of daily life. They have figured out how to live in perfect balance. They understand what it means to work, and equally what it means to relax and enjoy life. They embrace everything with passion. Nothing is mediocre. The infrastructure in Italy is appalling. Nothing works. But the food of Italy is absolutely incredible. The architecture is breathtaking. The fashion still defines elegance all over the world.

I especially love the light of Italy. It has a heady effect on me. It just brings me alive.

And what the light shines on is equally amazing. You can be walking down a drab street in an unremarkable residential neighborhood when suddenly, through a half-open door, you catch an unbelievably bright image of a woman hanging colorful clothing in a courtyard ringed with flowering plants. Or out of nowhere a merchant will roll up a metal door and reveal a gorgeous display of produce: freshly picked fruits and vegetables, arrayed in perfect gleaming rows.

Italians treat every detail of retail and food preparation with reverence and an insistence that nothing less than the best will do. In late summer and fall, for example, fresh figs are available at any ordinary produce stall. The merchant will ask: “White or black?” If the order is for half and half, the merchant will take a simple cardboard tray and cover it with three or four fig leaves, then pick each fig individually, squeezing it to ensure the perfect level of ripeness. He will arrange the fruit in four rows—three white, three black, three white, three black—and he will slide the tray carefully into a bag and hand it to you with the pride of an artisan.

The morning after I arrived, I decided to walk to the trade show, which was only fifteen minutes from my hotel. I love to walk, and Milan is a perfect place for walking.

Just as I started off, I noticed a little espresso bar. I ducked inside to look around. A cashier by the door smiled and nodded. Behind the counter, a tall, thin man greeted me cheerfully, “Buon giorno!” as he pressed down on a metal bar and a huge hiss of steam escaped. He handed a tiny porcelain demitasse of espresso to one of the three people who were standing elbow-to-elbow at the counter. Next came a handcrafted cappuccino, topped with a head of perfect white foam. The barista moved so gracefully that it looked as though he were grinding coffee beans, pulling shots of espresso, and steaming milk at the same time, all the while conversing merrily with his customers. It was great theater.

“Espresso?” he asked me, his dark eyes flashing as he held out a cup he had just made.

I couldn’t resist. I reached for the espresso and took a sip. A strong, sensual flavor crossed my tongue. After three sips it was gone, but I could still feel its warmth and energy.

Half a block later, across a side street, I saw another espresso bar. This one was even more crowded. I noticed that the gray-haired man behind the counter greeted each customer by name. He appeared to be both owner and operator. He and his customers were laughing and talking and enjoying the moment. I could tell that the customers were regulars and the routines comfortable and familiar.

In the next few blocks, I saw two more espresso bars. I was fascinated.

It was on that day that I discovered the ritual and the romance of coffee bars in Italy. I saw how popular they were, and how vibrant. Each one had its own unique character, but there was one common thread: the camaraderie between the customers, who knew each other well, and the barista, who was performing with flair. At that time, there were 200,000 coffee bars in Italy, and 1,500 alone in the city of Milan, a city the size of Philadelphia. It seemed they were on every street corner, and all were packed.

My mind started churning.

That afternoon, after I finished my meetings at the trade show, I set off again, walking the streets of Milan to observe more espresso bars. I soon found myself at the center of the city, where the Piazza del Duomo is almost literally lined with them. As you walk through the piazza, you’re surrounded by the smells of coffee and roasting chestnuts and the light banter of political debate and the chatter of kids in school uniforms. Some of the area’s coffee bars are elegant and stylish, while others are bigger, workaday places.

In the morning, all are crowded, and all serve espresso, the pure essence of coffee in a cup. There are very few chairs, if any. All the customers stand up, as they do in a western bar. All the men, it seemed, smoke.

The energy pulses all around you. Italian opera is playing. You can hear the interplay of people meeting for the first time, as well as people greeting friends they see every day at the bar. These places, I saw, offered comfort, community, and a sense of extended family. Yet the customers probably don’t know one another very well, except in the context of that coffee bar.

In the early afternoon, the pace slows down. I noticed mothers with children and retired folks lingering and chatting with the barista. Later in the afternoon, many espresso places put small tables on the sidewalk and served aperitifs. Each was a neighborhood gathering place, part of an established daily routine.

To the Italians, the coffee bar is not a diner, as coffee shops came to be in America in the 1950s and 1960s. It is an extension of the front porch, an extension of the home. Each morning they stop at their favorite coffee bar, where they’re treated with a cup of espresso that they know is custom-made. In American terms, the person behind the counter is an unskilled worker, but he becomes an artist when he prepares a beautiful cup of coffee. The coffee baristas of Italy have a respected place in their neighborhoods.

As I watched, I had a revelation: Starbucks had missed the point—completely missed it. This is so powerful! I thought. This is the link. The connection to the people who loved coffee did not have to take place only in their homes, where they ground and brewed whole-bean coffee. What we had to do was unlock the romance and mystery of coffee, firsthand, in coffee bars. The Italians understood the personal relationship that people could have to coffee, its social aspect. I couldn’t believe that Starbucks was in the coffee business, yet was overlooking so central an element of it.

It was like an epiphany. It was so immediate and physical that I was shaking.

It seemed so obvious. Starbucks sold great coffee beans, but we didn’t serve coffee by the cup. We treated coffee as produce, something to be bagged and sent home with the groceries. We stayed one big step away from the heart and soul of what coffee has meant throughout the centuries.

Serving espresso drinks the Italian way could be the differentiating factor for Starbucks. If we could re-create in America the authentic Italian coffee bar culture, it might resonate with other Americans the way it did with me. Starbucks could be a great experience, and not just a great retail store.

I stayed in Milan about a week. I continued my walks through the city, getting lost every day. One morning I took a train ride to Verona. Although it’s only a forty-minute ride from industrial Milan, it felt as if it had stood still since the thirteenth century. Its coffee bars were much like Milan’s, and in one, I mimicked someone and ordered a “caffè latte,” my first taste of that drink. I had expected it to be just coffee with milk, but I watched as the barista made a shot of espresso, steamed a frothy pitcher of milk, and poured the two into a cup, with a dollop of foam on the top.

Here was the perfect balance between steamed milk and coffee, combining espresso, which is the noble essence of coffee, and milk made sweet by steaming rather than by adding sugar. It was the perfect drink. Of all the coffee experts I had met, none had ever mentioned this drink. No one in America knows about this, I thought. I’ve got to take it back with me.

Every night I would call Sheri back in Seattle and tell her what I was seeing and thinking. “These people are so passionate about coffee!” I told her. “They’ve elevated it to a whole new level.”

On that day in the piazza in Milan, I couldn’t foresee the success Starbucks is today. But I felt the unexpressed demand for romance and community. The Italians had turned the drinking of coffee into a symphony, and it felt right. Starbucks was playing in the same hall, but we were playing without a string section.

I brought that feeling back to Seattle and infused it in others around me, who re-created it for still others all over the country. Without the romance of Italian espresso, Starbucks would still be what it was, a beloved local coffee bean store in Seattle.