Onward (54 page)

Meanwhile, in April 2009, something curious was happening in our business. For the first time in almost a year, Starbucks’ US comparable store sales were creeping upward. Although still distressingly deep in negative territory, April's negative 7.2 percent comp sales were an undeniable improvement over March's negative 8.1 percent, which had been better than February's negative 8.3 percent comp decline. These were incremental improvements from which it was too early to draw any conclusions, but the data were encouraging: Customers were starting to spend a little more money at Starbucks.

The first time I walked through the narrow doorway and into the unassuming corner shop on Via Montenapoleone, the most fashionable and expensive street in Milan, I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion. Inside, the unassuming Coltelleria G. Lorenzi was a silent symphony. A simple yet unbelievable execution of nonverbal, visual excitement.

Softly lit displays beckoned me to admire a mind-boggling assortment of handcrafted knives, razors, and cutlery. There were scissors of all varieties—85 for manicuring alone—many forged from steel, some made especially for trimming thick beards, others for cutting delicate fingernails. In all, thousands of items were displayed under glass as if in a museum. I could literally feel the passion, the expertise, that had been put into this space. Such reverence.

“Who
is
this?” I asked my friend Plácido Arango, who had brought me here. Plácido is an accomplished businessman and one of the most genuine people I've ever known; his company, Grupo Vips, operates Starbucks stores throughout Spain. We share a respect for artisans of all kinds. “Mr. Aldo Lorenzi,” he told me. “His father opened this shop many years ago.”

Every time I returned to Milan, I visited the shop, but I never saw Mr. Lorenzi. Finally, in 2009, Plácido asked an Italian friend, Angelo Moratti, if he would introduce me to Aldo.

“He doesn't speak any English.”

“Do you think he's ever heard of Starbucks?” I asked.

“No, he's never heard of Starbucks.”

“Do you think I can sit down with him?”

“He won't do it.”

“I have to meet him.”

“Howard, he's not going to do it.” But Angelo agreed to call. Mr. Lorenzi was hesitant, but he kindly acquiesced.

“He'll meet you for a few minutes tomorrow.”

It was about 10 a.m. when Plácido, Angelo, and I arrived at 9 Via Montenapoleone. A tall, elegant gentleman, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, quietly escorted us into his office. We sat down. Angelo translated as I first thanked Mr. Lorenzi for giving me a few moments of his time.

The planned 20-minute visit extended through the afternoon. The three of us listened, entranced, as Aldo Lorenzi spoke with humility and respect about his family and the business his father had founded in 1929—and what it means to him to be a merchant. I took notes on a small pad.

At one point, he asked
me
a question. “How many stores do you have?”

“I'm embarrassed to tell you,” I said.

“How many?” he asked again.

“Sixteen thousand.” I watched his expression change to disbelief as he heard the Italian translation. “Did he say 16,000 coffee stores?” He shook his head. “I could never even have two.”

At the end of our visit, Mr. Lorenzi handed me a gray paperback book translated into English from Italian. I read the title:
That Shop in Via Montenapoleone
, by Aldo Lorenzi. Its thick, textured cover and creamy pages felt as handcrafted as the cutlery encased in glass, and on the flight back to the United States I sat back and turned to the first chapter. “I love our shop . . . ,” read the first sentence, written with the conviction of a man who truly knew his trade. I was hooked.

In the months to come, I kept the book close to me. It was one of the few items that took up space on my desk and came with me on business trips. I shared it with friends and partners, but mostly I took tremendous joy in reading Mr. Lorenzi's words to myself. More often than not, a sentence or a paragraph reiterated my own philosophies, but at the same time made me think about retail, our shared profession, in an even more romantic yet practical light:

I want to write pages that have their own poetics about the things I make or do, but at the same time I want them to be like the pages of a manual, down-to-earth instructions, exact and useful information about our job. It is a job that has been transformed with the passing of time and yet it has remained the same.

Despite our differences in culture and business and age, this 73-year-old Italian owner of a solitary knife store spoke my language. He had much to share, and I still had much to learn.

At the very heart of being a merchant is a desire to tell a story by making sensory, emotional connections.

Once, twice, or 16,000 times.

Ideally, every Starbucks store should tell a story about coffee and what we as an organization believe in. That story should unfold via the taste and presentation of our products as well as the sights, sounds, and smells that surround our customers. The aroma of freshly ground coffee. Interior hues, textures, the shapes and materials of furniture
and fixtures, as well as their origins. The art on the walls. The music. The rhythm of the coffee bar and how our partners move and speak behind the counter—and what they speak about.

Each store's ambience is the manifestation of a larger purpose, and at Starbucks each shop's multidimensional sensory experience has always defined our brand. Our stores and partners are at their best when they collaborate to provide an oasis, an uplifting feeling of comfort, connection, as well as a deep respect for the coffee and communities we serve. As Aldo Lorenzi understood, Starbucks Coffee Company's challenge has always been to authentically replicate this experience hundreds upon thousands of times.

When it comes to telling Starbucks’ story, my taste for the charm of a neighborhood café might seem at odds with my ambitions for the business. Yes, I have long believed that Starbucks can create authentic, personal experiences while at the same time be a profitable global company. Yes, I want our stores’ interiors to personify our values but also to be buildable at scale. Yes, I want our baristas to serve customers with a sincere smile and also with speed, and yes, I believe our flavors and environments can reflect local cultures as well as deliver consistent tastes and quality; a store in Japan that offers lattes infused with the revered sakura flower should also serve brewed coffees whose tastes visitors from the United Kingdom will recognize as Starbucks’.

Whether Starbucks stores could feel small as the company grew big, balancing efficiencies with romance, was a question people constantly asked me, and I was routinely criticized for daring to believe such a balance could be achieved. But striving for balance between extremes is a trait that has long set Starbucks apart from so many other consumer brands. And while over the years my attention has wandered from time to time, at no point have I ever given up my intention that Starbucks should find equilibrium between the personal and the profitable and deliver shareholder value through the lens of social conscience. As Starbucks neared its 40
^th
year, 2011, I was asking everyone at the company, directly and indirectly, to balance an entrepreneurial enthusiasm with the rigor that complex organizations require.

In the summer of 2009, two specific initiatives to enhance our in-store experience were under way. One involved interior design. The other, customer service and partner engagement.

Both initiatives had been percolating in pockets of the company for months, in some cases years, and each promised dramatic improvements if executed well. But change, even when for the better, is sometimes uncomfortable. Sometimes unwelcome. Our partners, customers, and the marketplace were in for some shocks.

We are proud to have a traditional type of shop, which had remained true to itself over the years, but it must not be forgotten that this creates the need to keep it “fresh.” The more that furniture, floor and fittings age, the greater the need for meticulous and periodic maintenance. Old is beautiful, but not if it is neglected.—Aldo Lorenzi,
That Shop in Via Montenapoleone

I did not recognize our own store.

Located at the bustling corner of Pike Street and First Avenue in downtown Seattle, directly across the street from the Market, this Starbucks interior space had a familiar yet fresh feel. In spirit it reminded me of our original location, but with a renewed energy. The aura was rustic and earthy but modern. The muted colors naturally warm. As I moved into the space, past customers sitting at a long communal table, some sipping coffee or tea out of ceramic mugs, Arthur Rubinfeld, our president of global development, explained what I was seeing. And what I was not.

The materials used for the store's floor, ceiling, wood columns, cabinets, even door handles had been preserved from nearby buildings and farms, made from fallen trees, or recycled from items like laundry detergent bottles and old wine barrels. The long wood table had once been used in a local restaurant after it was reclaimed from a Seattle-area home. The slate menu behind the bar came from a classroom at Seattle's Garfield High School. Burlap coffee bags lining the walls were from our Kent, Washington, roasting plant. The leather on the face of the coffee bar was recycled from shoe and automobile factories.
Amazing
, I thought.

Above me, LED and compact fluorescent lights were using less energy than regular bulbs. In the restrooms, dual-flush toilets and low-flow faucets reduced water use. Even the paint was carefully chosen to avoid interfering with the store's coffee aroma, and much of the waste generated during construction had been recycled. The entire
store was built to be LEED certified—meaning that it meets stringent standards to reduce its environmental impact.

First and Pike was not an anomaly. Eventually, all of our new company-owned stores worldwide would also qualify for LEED certification. And in a few months, July 2009, I would travel to Paris for the opening of our store in Disney Village, where materials had been reclaimed from French wine barrels and old champagne racks and recycled from mobile phone parts and aircraft tires. Coffee grounds from the store, I was told, would likely be donated to the amusement park, where they would be used for composting.

Standing inside the First and Pike store, I looked around. The space was beautiful. So much more than an extension of an existing design, this was a reimagined experience that enhanced the sense of community and reinforced our coffee heritage while demonstrating and encouraging environmental consciousness.

I was extremely proud of what Arthur and his team had brought to fruition in the year since he had accepted my request to return to Starbucks and overhaul our store development.

“We have to let people know Starbucks is coming back,” I recall saying to Arthur just before I returned as ceo. I hoped my old friend would accept my offer to head global development. “Arthur, we can do it again,” I all but pleaded.