Barbarians at the Gate by Bryan Burrough, John Helyar Page B

to crumble. The Coppers-era bakeries were deteriorating, and Nabisco no longer had the profits to modernize or replace them. Even after Bickmore retired in 1973, little changed. In the seventies Nabisco was run by decent, slow-moving executives who fostered a culture that venerated past glories. Good men all, but change agents they weren’t. As one of its ad agency executives put it, “How could somebody who makes Oreos be mean?”
    Nabisco stagnated. No one was fired. No one worked past five. No one raised a voice. No one, not even the new chief executive, Bob Schaeberle, had doors on his office. No one, not even Schaeberle, had a company car or a corporate country club membership.
    Then along came Ross Johnson. It was, one wag noted, as if Hell’s Angels had merged with the Rotary Club.
     

     
    Bob Schaeberle became chairman and chief executive of Nabisco Brands, Ross Johnson president and chief operating officer. Below him, as the two companies combined their managements, Johnson’s Merry Men were positively grouchy.
    For one thing, Nabisco’s morning meetings began around eight-thirty, in the midst of their hangovers. In contrast to Standard Brands’s free-for-all bull sessions, Nabisco’s deliberations were carefully choreographed. Executives sat around a table, each making a fifteen-minute presentation on a particular cookie or cracker. At the end of each, questions were invited. Rarely were there any; it seemed bad form. It would drone on like this into midafternoon, with a break for lunch. Johnson often arranged to be summoned from the room by a phone call, never to return, leavingRogers and Carbonell and the others to silently squirm.
    Then one day, John Murray, the Standard Brands vice president for sales, could stand no more. It came during an especially tiresome discourse on procedures for closing company offices during snowstorms. In the event of a bad storm, a Nabisco executive said, workers would be given notice that offices would close in a matter of hours. That enabled those who needed rides a chance to line them up, and gave the company a chance to organize van pools and bring the day to an orderly conclusion. Obviously pleased with himself, the executive invited questions.
    “I can’t fucking believe this!” Murray exploded. “If it’s dangerous out there, don’t wait two hours; close the place down. Nobody’s going to do shit for those two hours, anyway. That’s fucking ridiculous.” A stunned silence ensued. Finally Jim Welch, a senior Nabisco executive chairing the meeting, broke it. “I agree with John one hundred percent,” he said.
    It was one of the first shots of the cultural revolution that would transform Nabisco. Meetings began to loosen up. Murray would be detailing the performance of Fleischmann’s Margarine, only to be interrupted by a shout from Peter Rogers: “Tell ’em about Blue Bonnet Baking Margarine.” That brand, of course, was faring poorly. Nabisco executives prided themselves on the company’s elaborate planning procedures, compiled in thick, multiyear projections and operations outlooks. Johnson chucked them all. “Planning, gentlemen, is ‘What are you going to do next year that’s different from what you did this year?’” he told them. “All I want is five items.”
    On paper Schaeberle remained the top executive of Nabisco Brands, but Johnson found it easy to get his way. Their offices were adjacent, and Johnson wasted no time ingratiating himself with the boss. He deferred to Schaeberle in every regard, obsequiously addressing him in meetings as “Mr. Chairman.” Johnson’s many country club memberships were paid for by the company; he insisted that Schaeberle’s dues be picked up, too. They were. Johnson and his executives drove flashy company cars; he insisted Schaeberle and his aides do so, too. They did. Johnson donated $250,000 to Pace University to endow a Robert M. Schaeberle Chair in accounting. Surprised by the announcement at a Pace