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.
V ISION I S W HAT T HEY C ALL I T W HEN
O THERS C AN’T S EE W HAT Y OU S EE
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,
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.
V ISION I S W HAT T HEY C ALL I T W HEN
O THERS C AN’T S EE W HAT Y OU S EE
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,
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