"All the employees here feel that they've got the whole company on their shoulders," explains general manager MacDermott, 36. "That's the reason for our quality."
"We're all about the same age, and, since our jobs overlap, we're never separate," adds brewer Tim Morse, 34. "We help each other out. No one who comes to work here ever wants to leave."
No one, that is, except Fritz Maytag.
The signs of Maytag's sabbatical fill his office. A picture of his trainer behind one of the three trotters he has bought sits on the bookcase filled with works on brewing; a letter from Sebastiani Yineyards about crushing the grapes from his Napa Valley vineyard lies on top of the "Dear Fritz" thank-you letter from Dianne Feinstein, mayor of San Francisco. Maytag has bought a house on Corfu and is teaching himself Greek. The Athens newspapers lie, unread, next to his copy of The Wall Street Journal.
But Maytag is a man with obligations beyond his business, duties he will not shirk: He is board member and former chairman of Grinnell College, director and twice president of the Brewers Association of America, chairman of the board of his family's dairy company. Noblesse oblige. He can't turn his back on the civic, cultural, and charitable burdens the family name gave him.
Nor can Maytag ignore the debt he feels to the brewing industry. Other brewers, much larger than he, gave freely of time and advice when he was starting; he feels compelled to do the same for the would-be brewers who flock to see him.
Although Maytag would rather be sailing, at 2:30 p.m. he sits in his office, talking with a 36-year-old financial consultant with an itch to start a brewery. "No," the man admits, "I haven't studied anything about brewing yet." But he has a concept. "I thought you could help me short-circuit the learning time required."
"I've got a thick file of all the would-be brewers who come to see me," Maytag says with a laugh, tilting back his chair, putting a hand to his suspenders. "Most of the people who get into the small-brewer business don't have the money. They can't get investors, and believe you me it's hard to borrow a million dollars on your good name. A brewery of this quality will cost you something in the neighborhood of $150 a barrel."
"What's the optimum size?" his guest asks. "Fully capitalized, without flushing money down the toilet?"
"Do you have enough cash to do 10,000 barrels? That's a million and a half," says Maytag. Anchor Steam's capacity is 50,000 barrels.
"That depends on how long it will take me to break even."
"Years," Maytag says flatly. "At least three. And I often tell small brewers five, from when you introduce the product."
"Why so long?" The would-be brewer looks incredulous. "What's your product cost?" ?Maytag's expression turns frosty. Information on cost and profit is not for the public. Like his brewing formula, such details stay inside the company. "Look," he explains, "I've told my staff, 'It's wonderful that these microbreweries are springing up. But they bad-mouth us. They always say I couldn't have made it if I didn't have a lot of money. And now the day has come when we have to realize we can't give the store away.' "
"Okay," the guest agrees. "But bottom line: What do you think of my chances to make it go?"
"What's success?" Maytag asks.
"A good return on investment. What are the odds?"
"It worries me that you don't have any manufacturing or marketing experience. Of course, I didn't, either, butI had the time to learn."
"Well, 60-40?" the man asks, insistently. "50-50? 40-60?"
But Maytag is too polite to be blunt. Given the market ferment, there is probably room for one more small brewer, but he'll need more than a concept. "I'm a bad man to ask," he admits ruefully. "I always tell people I would be way ahead if I'd just put my money in stocks or the money market, at least in a purely financial sense."
"But Anchor Steam paved the way for all of us," the guest says.
"No," says Maytag. "The tide rose up to meet our boat. It was a nice little boat, but we were lucky, too."
It is time to relax. And Maytag has good news: The prime is down to 12%, and Maytag is up to 34 1/4. Damn, he tells himself. With news like that I deserve a sail.
Still, it is hard to pull away. There are decisions to make about storage tanks and malt choppers, wholesalers to call, and there is the final package design to approve for the Christmas ale.
A would-be retailer from Kansas City stomps in, resplendent in hand-tooled boots and a plaid shirt with pearly buttons. "I sure would like to carry your beer," he drawls. "I get considerable calls for it."
Maytag, however, has no more beer. Once again, demand exceeds supply. "Maybe next year," he says.
Maytag is the last one out of the brewery It is almost 6:15 before he can unhook his boat and roll it down to the water's edge. The Dulci Bella is a strange craft, made for the occasional sailor. Rather than an auxiliary motor it has oars, like the daysailers of 50 years ago. A mariner unable to master the mystery of time and tide can get home only on his own sweat.
Maytag sails his tiny boat out into the bay, entranced by the vision of the early evening lights on the San Francisco hills, a mug of Chivas Regal in hand and a Vivaldi concerto on his tape deck.
Anchor Steam, Maytag thinks, should continue to grow. He anticipated his customers, and the majors have followed him in a rush for super-premiums with brands like Schlitz's Erlanger, Coors's Herman Josef, or Pabst's Andekar. With a capacity of 50,000 barrels, and the capital costs of expanding to that level minimal, his goal to grow at 15% a year and become "a force in every major American market" seems within his grasp. He would like to be brewing an ale year round, too. And he would like to see the green trim on his building painted blue, the Anchor Steam color.
"I can 't imagine selling it," Maytag says. "I love it too much, and I've learned too much. But years ago I came home and said I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I want to be chairman of the board. I want Anchor Steam to go on forever, but it's time for something new for me."
The sun sinking behind the bridge turns Maytag's face golden, then disappears, leaving him in shadow. The wind dies; Dulci Bella sail flaps listlessly, then stills. The current has turned; he is drifting out to sea.
Feet firmly in place, back braced against the strain, Maytag puts his hands to the oars and begins, pulling against the tide, the long, slow row home.
