THE EMPRESS IS ALL CLOTHES
Pierre Marcolini tells a great story about Godiva Chocolatier. It seems that an amiable Belgian named Joseph Draps loved his family-made product, and he handed out samples wherever he went. On a plane to New York in the 1960s, he passed a box of pralines to an American seated next to him. “Ah,” the stranger exulted, “I know these; they are my wife’s favorites.” He urged Draps to visit him at the Waldorf-Astoria. When Draps did, the American asked how much the business was worth. And, on hearing the figure, he wrote a check for twice as much.
Of course, like so many great stories, it isn’t quite true. Draps’s niece, Jo, who runs a chocolate museum in Brussels, laughed when I checked it with her. “It does make pretty good history, doesn’t it?” she told me. Joseph Draps is dead, she said, but for an accurate version, she suggested I call her father, Pierre. Though long since retired, Pierre was a partner in Godiva with his brothers back in the 1960s.
“Well,” he said when I repeated the story to him, “not exactly.” In fact, he remembered the American, a Mr. Murphy, who walked into the shop on the Grand-Place. Instead of the usual five hundred grams of chocolate that most customers requested, he wanted to buy the whole
place. The brothers were stunned at the idea. The business had been in the family since their father started it in 1929 and named it after the legendary naked lady of Coventry. But they came up with a figure. The man accepted.
What is true in both accounts is that the American buyer was Bev Murphy, then head of the Campbell Soup Company. At first his company bought one-third of the business and obtained exclusive export rights. In 1974, Campbell’s ate the whole thing. For three decades, Godiva Chocolatier has been no more Belgian than those red-and-white cans of chicken noodle soup that inhabit nearly every kitchen cabinet in America.
Despite its more than two hundred boutiques in major American cities and at least a thousand more outlets in U.S. department or specialty stores, not to speak of the rest of the world, Godiva is not easy to get to know. My first calls were directed to an advertising agency, which in turn referred me to press releases on Godiva’s Web site. This is hardly an acceptable way for reporters to gather information. But, for starters, the canned history made for an interesting read.
“It’s not surprising that Godiva Chocolatier, Inc., one of the creators of the world’s most elegant handcrafted chocolates, originated in Brussels,” it said. “For generations, Belgium has had a tradition of perfectionism, from its Rubens paintings and Gothic architecture to products made of intricate lace, glittering crystal and its fabulous cuisine.”
Joseph Draps, who sold his chocolate piece by piece, lives on in official Godiva lore: “He had a remarkable eye for detail … and he perfected a unique formula of rich chocolate with unparalleled smoothness.” It would take me a long time to find a live voice to explain how even the remarkable eye and steady hand of the long-dead Draps could keep track of all that chocolate.
In fact, my initial one-way communication with a Web site raised more questions than it answered. “Godiva,” it said, “was first to create the concept of premium chocolate.” I knew plenty of pedigreed chocolate makers who would argue with that. The master chocolatier Thierry Muret was quoted as saying Godiva’s hallmark was freshness; inferior chocolates had a longer shelf life. But then why were so many Godiva
products marked with sell-by dates that were more than six months in the future?
The site also offered a refreshing flash of reality: “Our growing popularity is due to our innovative approaches in manufacturing, advertising and packaging.”
Godiva displays are, by and large, beautiful. At each outlet, bonbons nestle against golden glitter, skillfully arranged to fire the senses. For each season and every holiday, something clever catches the eye. Salespeople are almost always friendly and eager to help.
The problem is that so much of this tempting chocolate tasted to me as if someone dumped a lot of sugar into melted candle wax. A greasy feel blunts the few flavor notes that emerge from the chocolate. Too often, powerful ingredients overwhelm the chocolate entirely. I sometimes sensed a metallic tinge. That, of course, was just me. The many professionals I consulted were usually less charitable. Chloé tried it, unidentified, and reported hints of an overfilled ashtray.
But Godiva has its enthusiastic fans; plenty of people say they love the stuff. I needed to know more about this mysterious luxury label.
An official brushoff proclaims: “Since Godiva Chocolatier, Inc., is a wholly owned subsidiary, we do not publish a separate financial statement, and do not discuss total sales, advertising costs or financial performance.”
But the Campbell Soup Company is owned by stockholders. A Securities and Exchange Commission filing late in 2003 said Godiva was thriving less than its image suggested. Sales had increased at airport duty-free shops and in the Asia-Pacific region, but same-store sales in America were lower than in 2002.
In Campbell’s annual report, Douglas R. Conant, a smiling CEO in shirtsleeves, observed, “Godiva continues to be one of the most recognized luxury brands in the world today. However, its growth continued to be affected by softness in consumer spending for luxury goods.”
I tried every number on the site but was offered only creative ways to buy chocolate. Minor persistence turned up a corporate number
in New York. When I explained my purpose, the operator gave me the company’s advertising agency. I called back to insist on a press department, or at least a company spokesperson. I got the public relations company that handles Godiva on contract.
The account executive was pleasant but cautious. No, she said immediately, it would not be possible to visit Godiva’s American plant in Pennsylvania. When I asked to see a company officer in New York, she suggested a telephone interview. For good measure, I mentioned that even Valrhona had let me through its hermetically sealed doors—surely that would cut some ice. She would get back to me. Right.
At the San Francisco Fancy Food Show in 2004, I left my card at the Godiva booth. Not long after, I got a call from Eugene Dunkin, chief executive officer of Godiva in North America and former head of European operations. He was about to conduct a meeting with his staff, he said, but he would be happy to make some time for an interview.
I met Dunkin at a mezzanine conference room at the Marriott, a few blocks from the hubbub of the show. He was a pleasant surprise. He seemed like an awfully nice guy, shaved and powdered to boardroom standards but easygoing and friendly.
“We go for the glorious gasp,” Dunkin said, referring to that moment when a consumer, pushed toward sensory orgasm by all that golden glitter, sinks teeth into what lies beneath. “We put a lot of stock in the ahhh factor.”
At every stage, he linked past to present. He spoke of Draps as though the long-deceased old man were still sipping schnapps in the next room. He talked with pride about the rickety four-story old factory they still used in Brussels. “You ride up the old elevator, thinking it won’t make it,” he said, “and then you get to the aroma of roasted hazelnuts. You could bottle the air and sell it.”
Dunkin said less about the impenetrable American plant in Reading, Pennsylvania, which starts with liquid chocolate base to save time and money. I asked him if there were major formula differences between the plants in Belgium and the United States.
“The simple answer is yes,” he said. “It was more complicated when we set up because Americans didn’t understand dark chocolate.” More recently, he said, American tastes have evolved not only in chocolate but also in coffee, wines, and clothing. “There’s been a real elevation in taste. Along the way, changes were made, and our plants are engineered to deliver the same experience.”
Repeatedly, Dunkin referred to “premium chocolate,” and he praised Campbell Soup for pioneering this premium chocolate in North America. On its Web site, Godiva proclaims itself the world leader in premium chocolate.
At one point, I asked Dunkin to define the phrase. What, precisely, was “premium chocolate”?
He paused a moment to think and then replied, “I suppose you would say price point.” By that definition, if Hershey’s quintupled its price, that familiar old brown bar would be the world’s greatest chocolate.
Dunkin chuckled and demurred when I pressed for details about the company. After some fencing, he allowed that its turnover was well into the hundreds of millions of dollars. He was equally vague about beans. Godiva does not make its own chocolate. It buys its basic ingredient from Callebaut, and it is apparently not shy about using cacao from Ivory Coast or anyplace else where the price is right. “Of course,” Dunkin said, “we keep our formulas locked away in a little black box.”
Campbell, he said, has been a boon to the company. “To their credit, they have always been supportive. They recognize that we are an indulgence brand, not a supermarket brand. Although Campbell executives want to get involved, strategically they are very hands-off. And very generous.”
Godiva saw what Dunkin called monster growth in the United States during the 1990s while it lagged behind in Europe. After 2000, it filled such black spots on the map as Singapore and Bulgaria. From Hong Kong, it was launched across the Pacific Rim.
The more I pressed Dunkin for details about what was in Godiva chocolate, the more he stressed the aura around it. Regularly, Godiva’s market researchers put together samplings of shoppers to test
their reactions to products; executives lurk behind one-way glass and watch.
“You should see the intensity of emotions,” Dunkin told me, describing one such session. “The thrill accumulates, the anticipation … it’s not too far from sex.”
He had just developed a special line, “G,” an even fancier package than normal, which would retail for $110 a pound at only a handful of stores. That is, twice the price of chocolate sold at La Maison du Chocolat in Paris. The idea is to hire top designers and artists to make things beautiful.
“Look, we’re a multi-hundred-million-dollar business,” Dunkin said. “We give them the latitude to create magic.”
Even the regular stuff is designed to evoke that ahhhhhh. “It is no accident that our packaging is so rich-looking and our displays are so attractive,” Dunkin said. “We hire the best consultants and designers. Even the experience of opening our boxes is important. We pay a lot of money for those hand-tied bows. This is all about pleasure, the glorious gasp. Across America, we are the gold standard, equivalent to Tiffany’s little blue box.” As we talked, new people streamed into the room, sat down, and glanced over to where we sat. The consummate host, Dunkin steered me outside while graciously responding to any question I put to him.
The problem with the interview was that while he responded, he was not really answering. Our conversation kept veering back toward the box and not the chocolate. This was the first man I had met on the chocolate trail who seemed not to care beans about the actual basic ingredient. Or maybe he was just being cagey in a very polite way. In any case, I thanked him, and he went back in to run his meeting.
Dunkin had concluded on a note of happy optimism: “There will be growth in chocolate at the premium end. And we own the marketplace.”
Back in Paris, I made another visit with Dunkin’s words in mind. Had I been too harsh in my judgments? Godiva’s flagship shop—a classy corner store with broad appetizing windows—is barely a
minute’s stroll from the Ritz. Inside, the salespeople were so warm and welcoming that I had to remind myself I was in France.
A woman behind the counter answered each of my questions with enthusiasm but a thin grasp of chocolate making. When she offered samples, I asked for a palet d’or. She produced a well-made square with little taste to it. It was nearly as hard as praliné, but without any almonds. Just in case it did have some real cream in it, I was relieved to see it still had another four months of shelf life.
Clearly, Godiva marketers had been following trends. She handed me something marked 85 percent cacao content, a hot new item, but no one had given her clues as to the origin of the beans. It was suspiciously sweet for 85 percent.
Finally, guilt forced me to retreat. I was taking up her time and wasting samples offered in good spirit. To ease my mind, I bought a plain bar of dark chocolate. I did not, however, eat enough to report on the taste. With thanks to the woman, I left her to collect seventy-two euros a kilo from all those other people waiting their turn.
All things considered, one has to hand it to Godiva. Whatever the directors in New York may know about chocolate, they certainly understand human nature. Draps’s old cachet is now worldwide. And even if it is meaningless and based on hype, it far outstrips its weight in gold. On my visit to Hershey, Pennsylvania, I asked a woman who had grown up in the area if she had tasted fine European chocolate. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve had Godiva.”
So what if that shelf life the company’s chief chocolatier had vaunted was twice that of lowly Leonidas?
Godiva has seized unoccupied high ground in an America eager for something more than Hershey and Mars. In parts of Asia, Africa, and South America where the rich—newly or otherwise—want to splurge on the gold standard, the world leader in “premium chocolate” is ready to oblige.
Other large companies sell bonbons in fancy boxes for special occasions. But Godiva strategists have discovered the secret: They made their chocolate prettier than most and expensive enough to be exclusive.
As each holiday approaches, cleverly wrapped gift packages appear
in gold-bedecked windows. They exert a strong pull. A huge percentage of sales are for gifts, and it is hard to resist their physical appeal.
Full disclosure requires me to admit my own weakness. In New York, eager to thank a hotel receptionist for her usual kindness, I pondered the possibilities. Just then, I passed the Godiva shop on Lexington. The sales staff inside was friendly, and Halloween boxes with orange and black accents were classy yet amusing. I succumbed. My gift was a hit, greeted with happy squeals from the whole front desk. People love the idea of luxury, and that’s what Godiva puts in a box.