But while Worth was convinced he could do it, Allied Old wasn't. The company had no interest in an all-natural cookie.
Undaunted, Worth quit to develop one.
It took three years, but after thousands of batches and more than a couple of pounds added to his middle that he's still trying to lose, Worth had an all-natural cookie. One trick: it was sweetened with fruit juice instead of sugar. Hence the name. Fruit juice. Cookie. Frookie. (The official name is R. W. Frookie. The R. W. stands for Rich and Randye -- his second wife -- Worth.)
The nation's supermarkets did not exactly turn cartwheels when told about it. Here's how Worth's sales calls usually went when he started knocking on doors last August.
Supermarket buyer (often snarling): "We don't need an all-natural cookie."
Worth: "You mean to tell that me that the cookie aisle is different from every other part of your store where you have an all-natural alternative?"
Buyer: "Nobody likes fruit cookies."
Worth: "You're probably right, but this isn't a fruit cookie. It's only sweetened with fruit juice. And I bet you can't even taste the fruit. Frookies come in 'normal' varieties like chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin. There isn't a passion fruit in the bunch."
Buyer: "I've been to the health-food stores. All-natural cookies taste lousy."
Worth: "Eat this."
With that, Worth would shove a Frookie at the buyer, who would have to agree: the cookies are pretty good.
Buyer: "OK, but I don't have room to stock another cookie."
And that brings us to the heart of the marketing problem facing our hero. The supermarket buyer is right. Merely having a better product no longer guarantees you a spot on the aisle. Some background will help explain why.
Every year roughly 8,000 new food products are invented. Some come from people like Worth, but most are created by the big boys. For example, RJR Nabisco Inc., which owns 37% of the cookie aisle, has introduced as many as seven new kinds of cookies in a single month. The nation's resourcefulness when it comes to inventing snacks is endless. Supermarket shelf space, however, is not.
If Worth is going to get space, he will have to find new places within the store where his product can be sold or convince supermarkets to stock his Frookies instead of someone else's cookies. Ideally, he will do both.
Lord knows, Worth is trying. He has designed freestanding displays that can be placed at the end of the cookie aisle, and he offers to stage promotions that boost store traffic -- and Frookie awareness. When he got Cincinnati Reds rookie sensation Chris Sabo to appear at a suburban Ohio market, 3,000 people showed up, and both the store and Frookies were on the local TV news.
The intent is to get stores to give Frookies a try. If they do, Worth is prepared to make the most of it. Listen to Kroger's Sam Gingrich, who was the first supermarket executive to decide to carry Frookies.
"The packaging shows he can play with the big boys. The colors [soft purples and greens] are outstanding. They jump out at you. And he has done subtle things. The boxes are printed so that you can stack them either horizontally or vertically." Gingrich is so impressed with Frookie's sales that he is creating permanent Frookie shelves.
Given the extremely competitive nature of the cookie business, Worth will need all the friends like Gingrich he can get. And he is getting them, in part, by selling them one-third of the company cheap.
The idea is simple. Suppliers may treat you well, but partners will treat you even better. Says Worth: "A dis-tributor may handle 500 to 1,000 products, but if he's a shareholder you become one of the products he really devotes his time to."
A quick visit with Bob Schmitt, marketing manager of Shur-Good Biscuit Co., a distributorship, proves he's onto something. If you spend even five minutes with Schmitt, who owns 1.9% of the stock, you could get the impression that Frookies is the only thing his company supplies to supermarkets in Kentucky, Indiana, and Ohio.
Schmitt raves about how Frookies are perfect for people on diets that restrict sugar and cholesterol. He waves gushy letters praising the product, and he is especially proud of the promotions he has designed to entice supermarket executives. If a buyer takes enough cases, he gets a T-shirt that reads "I got 'Frooked' by Shur-Good Biscuit Co." (Worth and most of his colleagues like to use some form of the word Frookie as a verb.) If they order more, they can get Frookie watches and other premiums.
Worth is right. Partners are enthusiastic. Says Schmitt: "This is the most incredible product I have ever seen."
Partners are also understanding when it comes to getting paid. Consider Consolidated Biscuit Corp., Worth's baker, whose 5.2% ownership makes it one of the two largest shareholders. Consolidated gives Worth months to pay his bills, while Worth requires supermarkets to cut a check within 20 days. So to a large extent, Consolidated is financing Worth's operation.
All this helps explain why cash flow has been positive from the beginning.
Whatever money Frookies saves is going into advertising and promotion, all designed to get supermarket shelf space. It has to, because of a decision Worth made early on.
If you are going to market a unique, high-quality food product, you have two choices when it comes to distribution. You can sell through the Pathmarks, Winn-Dixies, and Alpha Betas of this world, or you can market through specialty shops.
In many ways, selling through the smaller stores is easier. The buyers are willing to try new things. They'll give you a bit longer to prove yourself, and perhaps most important, you can charge more. Most specialty cookies -- and Frookies, thanks to its all-natural ingredients and good-for-you-appeal, can easily be placed in that category -- sell for $2.99 for a six- to eight-ounce bag. Frookies' six-and-a-half- to seven-ounce boxes retail for $1.79 to $1.99.
