Jamba is looking
for some prime downtown Portland real estate to open up a
store.
GENTLE READERS:
"What's the best thing?" Kirk Perron
asks the waiter at Southpark. The best thing.
The phrase runs through Miss Dish's head. Just moments before,
Perron--the founder and chairman of the Jamba juice
chain, who was in town to check up on some of the franchises
here--was handing out free smoothies to a frenzied crowd of
Willamette Week employees, snorting sows all, who snap
at anything made of animal, vegetable or mineral offered free
of charge 'round the noon hour. These drinks, in all their
fruity, hefty splendor, are supposed to replace the honkin'
huge burrito as the quick lunch of choice. Liquid. Fruit-packed.
Injected with the vitamins and herbs of the day. Most over
400 calories per serving. Are we entering a brave new world
of quick and elegant eating or just passing through a trend?
Answers don't come easily.
The waiter recommends the salmon special, and Perron goes
for it.
Perron, who is based in San Francisco, is a tall, robust
fellow given to wearing man sandals with his shorts. He
founded the company in 1989 when he was just 27 years old.
He originally called it Juice Club, but as more copycats
jumped on the blender, the name changed to something a little
more original. Swarms of investors came forward to invest
in the concept, including some of the high-tech heavyweights
in the Valley--now there are 330 stores, including 20 in
Oregon. An IPO is in the future, but Perron won't say when.
Does Perron see what he's doing as akin to Starbucks? The
answer is, uh, no. "Starbucks is a drug," he says. "It's
totally addicting. What we offer is a healthy meal, and
what they offer is a drink." Perron sees people as hungry
for something fast and healthy in their lives. So what does
he make of all this Krispy Kreme madness, then? "We
all have stress in our lives, and some people may take it
out by getting drunk or eating a big steak--by indulging,"
he says. "People will continue to do that. And after they
finish, guilt sets in, and that's where Jamba fits. Jamba
is what they need to make up for it all." Ah, bow down to
the crown of Faith Popcorn, that macro-marketer who
years ago came up with the term "pleasure revenge" to describe
this very cycle.
"We are so insane," Miss Dish blabbers, dreaming of a fresh
Krispy Kreme while forking her crab cake.
"We're just human," Perron replies, comforting Miss Dish.
Perron, a bike hound, says he tried to go vegetarian but
couldn't do it because it was too difficult to keep away
from flesh. His salmon arrives, a beautiful pink cut of
Alaskan prime smothered with a bing cherry vinaigrette and
draped over bacon-tossed mashed potatoes. He takes a bite
and smiles. "I got the best thing," he says, pleased.
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