Onward (3 page)

Speaking to our people via the video, I had no script, just a heart-felt plea. “It is not about the company or about the brand,” I said. “It is not about anyone but you. You decide whether or not it is good enough, and you have my complete support and, most importantly, my faith and belief in you. Let's measure our actions by that perfect shot of espresso.”

Meanwhile, in city after city, news crews pointed their cameras at our closed stores as reporters interviewed baffled customers. “A World without Starbucks?” asked a headline in
The Baltimore Sun
. In New York City: “Starbucks Shutdown a Grande Pain for NYers.” Online, opinions pro and con streamed in throughout the day, and on television, CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox News, and others covered the closings with an odd sense of wonder, as if it had snowed in summer. Late-night comedians also roasted us. At my home in Seattle, I watched Stephen Colbert's mock news report about his three tortuous hours without a caffeinated drink, which climaxed as he doused himself in the shower with coffee, foam, and cinnamon. I went to sleep laughing for the first time in months.

Not everything went well that day. As predicted, Starbucks lost money. Approximately $6 million. One competitor tried to poach our customers by promoting 99-cent cups of espresso-based beverages. Some critics were brutal, insisting that by admitting we were broken we had forever dented the Starbucks brand. But I was confident that we had done the right thing. How could it be wrong to invest in our people?

In the weeks following the closures, our coffee quality scores went
up and stayed there as stories made their way to me, like this one from a barista in Philadelphia:

A gentleman came into my store this morning and told me he would like to try espresso but was afraid it would be too bitter. So I told him that I would pull some perfect shots for him and also make him an Americano. Together we talked about espresso, its origins, and how to enjoy the perfect shot. He enjoyed it immensely and said he would be back for more. . . . I think I now have a customer for life.

That was proof enough for me that we had done the right thing.

There are moments in our lives when we summon the courage to make choices that go against reason, against common sense and the wise counsel of people we trust. But we lean forward nonetheless because, despite all risks and rational argument, we
believe
that the path we are choosing is the right and best thing to do. We refuse to be bystanders, even if we do not know exactly where our actions will lead.

This is the kind of passionate conviction that sparks romances, wins battles, and drives people to pursue dreams others wouldn't dare. Belief in ourselves and in what is right catapults us over hurdles, and our lives unfold.

“Life is a sum of all your choices,” wrote Albert Camus. Large or small, our actions forge our futures, hopefully inspiring others along the way.

Ultimately, closing our stores was most powerful in its symbolism. It was a galvanizing event for Starbucks’ partners—the term we use for our employees—a stake in the ground that helped reestablish some of the emotional attachment and trust we had squandered during our years of focusing on hypergrowth. A bold move that I stand by today, it sent a message that decisiveness was back at Starbucks. No doubt, after that Tuesday, thousands of Starbucks espresso shots were poured like honey. But a symbolic act and three hours of education would not solve our mounting problems. We had a long, long way to go—further than I had imagined when I returned as ceo. In the winter of 2008, the fight began for our survival. What we faced was nothing less than a crucible, and I had spent the past year preparing for it.

When we love something, emotion often drives our actions.

This is the gift and the challenge entrepreneurs face every day. The companies we dream of and build from scratch are part of us and intensely personal. They are our families. Our lives.

But the entrepreneurial journey is not for everyone. Yes, the highs are high and the rewards can be thrilling. But the lows can break your heart. Entrepreneurs must love what they do to such a degree that doing it is worth sacrifice and, at times, pain. But doing anything else, we think, would be unimaginable.

So it was with a heavy heart that, early one morning in February 2007, I sat at my long kitchen table, alone, and handwrote a memo to Starbucks’ most senior leaders.

Outside, the morning would be dark for another two hours as rain drizzled down our kitchen windows. Sheri and I had been living in Seattle going on 25 years. Friends in New York had warned us about the foul weather before we moved. Their forecasts were not only overblown, but also overshadowed by the Pacific Northwest's rugged beauty and saner lifestyle. I actually enjoyed Seattle winters, which in truth were more gray than wet. Rainy winter mornings like this one were ideal for contemplation. I began to write.

“I want to share some of my thoughts with you.”

Candidly expressing my business philosophies, feelings, and plans in writing to coworkers has been a habit of mine since 1986 . . . but I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey that brought me to that table, on that day, to write the memo that would trigger heated public debate and alter Starbucks’ future as well as my own began many years ago.

My love of coffee developed when I first went to work as head of marketing for the four stores of a small coffee company named Starbucks. That was in 1982. I didn't truly discover coffee's magic, however, until one year later on a business trip to Italy. That visit was the seed of what blossomed into today's Starbucks Coffee Company.

Early one day in Milan, I was strolling from my hotel to a trade show when I popped into a small coffee bar. “
Buon giorno!
” an older, thin man behind the counter greeted me, as if I were a regular. Moving gracefully and with precision, he seemed to be doing a delicate dance as he ground coffee beans, steamed milk, pulled shots of espresso, made cappuccinos, and chatted with customers standing side by side at the coffee bar. Everyone in the tiny shop seemed to know each other, and I sensed that I was witnessing a daily ritual.

“Espresso?” he asked me.

I nodded and watched as he repeated the ritual for me, looking up to smile as the espresso machine hissed and whirred with purpose.
This is not his job
, I thought,
it's his passion
.

For a tall guy who grew up playing football in the schoolyards of Brooklyn, being handed a tiny white porcelain demitasse filled with dark coffee crafted just for me by a gracious Italian gentleman called a barista was nothing less than transcendent.

This was so much more than a coffee break; this was theater. An experience in and of itself.

After the espresso's rich flavors had warmed me, I thanked the barista and cashier and continued toward the trade show exhibit hall, stopping along the way at more coffee bars. There seemed to be at least one on every block! Inside, there was always a similar scene: a skilled barista or two behind a bar creating espressos, cappuccinos—and other drinks I had yet to taste—for people who seemed more like friends than customers. In every bar I felt the hum of community and a sense that, over a demitasse of espresso, life slowed down.

The blend of craftsmanship and human connection, combined with the warm aroma and energizing flavors of fresh coffee, struck an emotional chord. My mind raced. It was as if I envisioned my own future and the future of Starbucks, which at the time sold only whole-bean and ground coffee in bags for home consumption. No beverages.

After Milan I flew back to the United States, excited to share what I had experienced. But my bosses, the first founders of Starbucks, for whom I had tremendous respect, did not share my dream of re-creating the coffee bar experience in Seattle. I was crushed, but my belief was so powerful that, in April 1986, I left Starbucks and raised money from local investors to found my own retail coffee company. I named it Il Giornale, after Milan's daily newspaper.

That year, Il Giornale opened its first store in the lobby of Seattle's newest, highest office tower, Columbia Center. The store was 710 square feet, and I had to personally guarantee the lease, even though I had no assets at the time. To keep our labor costs down, my two colleagues and I—our chief coffee buyer Dave Olsen and Jennifer Ames-Karreman—sometimes worked behind the counter with the baristas. Pouring shots. Steaming milk. Blending beverages.

I also wrote my very first memo to employees. In it, I outlined the company's mission and the goals I expected us to achieve, as well as how we should achieve them. I was confident, especially because my
passion was backed by conviction. I
believed
. The memo's tone captured the ambition and enthusiasm of the young entrepreneur I was:

Il Giornale will strive to be the best coffee bar company on earth. We will offer superior coffee and related products that will help our customers start and continue their work day. We are genuinely interested in educating our customers and will not compromise our ethics or integrity in the name of profit. . . . Our coffee bars will change the way people perceive the beverage, and we will build into each Il Giornale coffee bar a level of quality, performance and value that will earn the respect and loyalty of our customers.

At the end, above my signature and in lieu of a traditional “Thank you” or “Sincerely,” I wrote “Onward.”

To this day, I am not sure if I had used the word prior to writing that memo. But at that moment the word struck me. It felt right, a call to arms that seemed to fit the daunting yet exciting adventure our little company was embarking on. Forward leaning. Nimble. Scrappy. An unquenchable desire to succeed, but always with heads held high.

It would, indeed, be quite a journey.

Sixteen months later, I found myself in a position to purchase my former employers’ company. Starbucks’ owners, Jerry Baldwin and Gordon Bowker, had decided to sell their Seattle stores and roasting plant, as well as the wonderful name. Buying the company that I had so much respect for seemed, to me, destiny, but I almost lost it in an emotional, contentious battle with another potential buyer. Had I not been able to quickly raise almost $3.8 million from investors who believed in me, Starbucks would have slipped through my fingers.

But it did not, and almost overnight the coffee company I founded went from five stores to 11.

Among our first big decisions was whether to keep the name Il Giornale, whose business model we would follow, or to adopt the Starbucks name and logo. Although I felt somewhat attached to the Il Giornale moniker, I knew that I had to let it go. Starbucks had established a respected reputation for high-quality, unique coffee. The name itself—after the first mate of the whale ship
Pequod
in Herman Melville's classic
Moby Dick
, Starbuck—harbored a familiar yet mystical quality, reflecting the essence of the products and services as well as the promise that we would be introducing to customers. We went with our gut, and from that point on the company that had started as Il Giornale would be known as Starbucks.