Are the internecine squabbles between sales and editorial, and among them and advertisers and their agencies unique to Restaurant Hospitality, or is this activity characteristic of every trade publication? Given my association for 27 years with the foodservice press (and the foodservice press only) and based on friendships with editors and publishers of other trade magazines, conversations I've had with magazine and newspaper writers and freelancers, and with bloggers all of whom--based on their contacts and business dealings with the press (both trade and consumer)--share some of the beliefs I claim to espouse, I'm pretty sure the squabbles I spell out here and in the following "Afterthought" are not confined solely to the foodservice press.
However, in the back of my mind lingered this apposition: was management's unseemly intimacy with advertisers and their agencies a weakness peculiar to Restaurant Hospitality, an idiosyncratic debility that favored, sanctioned, and insisted on employing a strategy, shoddy at best, that would result in advertising sales, provided we could offer, in exchange, promise of editorial support.; or was this a practice prevalent throughout the trade press and elsewhere in all of media, both print and electronic?
In most of our features, references to food, beverage, and equipment and their products meandered throughout our copy. It was impossible to write a story without writing about some of them. Advertisers and their agencies were always eager to peddle their products in those stories, hoping to fashion, however circuitously, a link from generic to their brand. That was a good thing. Most of the time.
I refused to name brands and the companies that made them. Our sales people thought that a silly rule, not in the best interests of our readers or our advertisers. When you mention a brand or its manufacturer, sales would insist, you not only give readers the information they want, but advertisers the opportunity to advertise. I tried to convince sales that was not a good idea: that in doing so we risked alienating advertisers whose brands we failed to mention while ingratiating ourselves to those we do. This bifurcation of values, commitments, and loyalties became an ongoing internal seesawing between sales and editorial, a delicate balancing act that editors were often called upon to respect.
As a foodservice trade press publication, it was impossible to avoid some degree of involvement, of conflict. It was never pretty. Following the Michaelides/Nicholas dust-up (the last post I posted several weeks ago) I decided to take some time to look deeper into the relationship among sales, editorial and advertising agencies (and their clients) and what effect that relationship had on the quality and honesty of what we published and what it meant, for me, at least, to be an editor of the trade press. The arguments I present here and the anecdotes I use to illustrate them throughout this "Afterthought" are based solely on my observations and notes while editor.
Re: March 1985: The Business of Women, Part 1: Michaelides vs. Nicholas. May 1985: The Business of Women, Part 2: Nicholas vs. Michaelides.
For those of you who read those posts, posted several weeks ago, you may want to know—and I don’t blame you—why I used the pseudonym, Richard Richardson, for the restaurateur, Nick Nicholas, who was profiled in the unnamed “trade magazine” published by the unidentified “international distiller,” Seagram. How come the dodge, for heaven’s sake?
Let me explain; and in the explaining I will take you down trade-press paths littered with incestuous intimacies between sales and editorial (and vice versa), ad agency bullying, and an assortment of humiliations, provocations, shameful acts and embarrassments that could take place only in the trade press—this particular “Afterthought,” exemplary. Hold on. Here we go.
In the original essay (final draft and all that) sent to the printer, there was no pseudonym, no unnamed magazine, no unidentified distiller. I named everyone and thing. In blueline (the photo likeness of every page of the magazine we read and proofed before letting our printer know it was OK to print) our publisher read my essay. He didn’t like it. “I have to kill it,” he said. I asked him why. He said, “Big mistake to print it.” Really? How come? “Well,” said he, “using excerpts from the article to illustrate your point about gender discrimination would offend Seagram and its agency, leaving the latter no choice but to cancel their ads. Every last one of them. It wouldn’t be the first time they pulled a stunt like that.” You’ve got to be kidding. They’re offended by gender discrimination? I thought Seagram was a diverse company. “That’s not the point.” What is? I don’t get it. I wrote nothing nasty about Seagram or its magazine. “You are mistaken,” said publisher. “You were critical of the content of the story, you poked fun at it and at Nick [Nicholas], you questioned its premise and introduced one—gender discrimination—that had nothing whatsoever to do with the article.” Not true I said. “Yes, true. Seagram ad guy would be pissed you did that; and I hate to think what Nick would do [he was a contributing editor, much loved by readers]. I didn’t like what you wrote about Nick; I liked even less what you wrote about Seagram. We might lose Nick because of what you wrote and that would be a shame. Far worse [enter dichotomy], however, would be the loss of Seagram business; and I wouldn’t want you or our magazine to be a party to that.” For the first time since I was named editor in 1971, Restaurant Hospitality that month went to press without my column.
Editorial/Sales: When Worlds Collide
Apropos of the above (and before we get much deeper into all of this) I want you to know that rarely were we in complete control of our editorial content—the preceding submitted as evidence. We may have thought we were. Not so. Hues and cries to the contrary and despite what you may have heard and read about the so-called divide between sales and editorial (I’ll get to that in a minute), it was ad agencies and their advertisers, however shrewdly, subtly or flagrantly, that at times held us hostage, that called the shots: suggested what we ought to write about and, in some cases, how to go about writing it.
We didn’t sense that; we knew that, which is why someone from editorial and sales was obliged to read every editorial page every month before we went to press not, mind you, to check for typos or grammatical faux pas (that was incidental), but to find out if we had written anything that might offend advertisers. At times our magazine was their magazine: a convenient conduit they navigated, whenever they felt like it, to stream their product-appropriate messages in and through our editorials. From our so-called “new products” section (today, it’s called, “Marketplace”) to the heart of our editorial well, they bothered us with their meddling. I have no proof, but I suspect advertisers asked their ad agencies to pull stunts like that as often as possible—the “hidden” agenda of the relationship; well, not so much hidden as shifty.
So, as a matter of course and bottom-line survival, we had no choice but to create an editorial package, one month to the next, that advertisers were comfortable supporting and happy to be associated with, and of course—lest we forget—that entertained our readers. Unlike three other foodservice publications (Nation’s Restaurant News, Restaurants & Institutions, Restaurant Business), leaders of the pack, we were under more pressure than they to pull off this subterfuge. In order to remain competitive (or, at the very least, to hang on to our fourth-place slot—a constant struggle), we were willing to do whatever it took to convince agencies to spend money with us.
Refute any of this if you dare, but I defy you to find any foodservice trade magazine (to include the leaders of the pack) that did not, at one time or another, anticipate or yield to ad agency pressures and expectations (especially when advertiser dollars were at stake) by adjusting, changing or deleting copy, points of view, opinions, or facts. Sad to say, it was conspicuously and embarrassingly quid pro quo-ish; and we should have been ashamed to publish stories that were more “advertorial” than editorial.
I have no idea the extent of this kind of activity within the pages of other trade magazines published by our company, Penton Media; however, because their sales and profits (as were ours) were, as a rule, based on a percent of advertiser dollars, I had to believe that a certain amount of backscratching hanky-panky took place. A friend of mine said recently, “Isn’t that what the trade press is all about; isn’t that why it’s called the trade press?” He used to work for a prestigious Ohio-based foodservice company. I think he knew what he was talking about.
Sidebar: A colleague, editor of a Penton magazine (not Restaurant Hospitality), sent me a trade-press “confessional,” written by an associate: it contained a litany of claims admitting to unethical practices. Here are a few of the 30 or so confessions: “I suppressed news management wanted suppressed. I invented news management wanted invented. I faked stories. I colored the truth with fancy. I curried favor with advertisers. I put lies in the magazine.”
You may wish to defend the significance or the meaning (take your pick) of the divide between sales and editorial, insisting the two remain separate one from the other (mutually exclusive, as it were) so that when one surreptitiously or shamelessly dares to enter the secure domain of the other with the intent of crawling into its sack, it breaches what was always assumed to be impenetrable, off-limits.
Unfortunately, that defense is limp with wishful thinking, bandied about by advocates of the divide. The intent? To bully and bother those of us occupying offices in the trade press. Although a similar defense wafts stubbornly and putridly throughout the sanctum sanctorums of consumer publication offices and pressrooms, no one there—for reasons tough to fathom and with evidence to the contrary —dares deny its nonsense. Editors of the consumer press (newspapers, tabloids and magazines), always eager to defend their wholesomeness, will tell you they have no idea what goes on in sales offices; furthermore, will insist they don’t care, have no interest in finding out. They keep their distance, staying as far away from sales people as possible, not wishing to ever dirty their hands with their muck. Have you ever heard of a consumer press editor going out to lunch with a sales manager? Never happens; just ask the editor. Try to talk to consumer press editors about sales and the link between the two, they’ll look at you dumbfounded; they have no idea what you’re talking about. As far as they’re concerned sales doesn’t exist; they have no idea what goes on there. They do, however, know this and will so advise you categorically: sales has nothing whatsoever to do with the success of the publication, that is simply a manifestation of editorial excellence. Uh huh.
Face it, the consumer press is as guilty as the trade press every time it lusts after advertiser dollars with the siren songs of special editorial promotions presumed to tantalize readers, increase newsstand sales or spike subscriptions (Sports Illustrated “swimsuit issue,” anyone?). For the moment, set aside your perception—dubious though it may be—of the editorial integrity of the consumer press. Do you honestly believe that ideas for special supplements spring ipso facto from the foreheads of its editors (the list is endless: interior design, best docs and hospitals, best colleges and universities, cosmetics, automobiles, landscaping, furniture, fashion, wristwatches, wines and distilled spirits, restaurants, hotels, resorts, travel, cruise lines, so on and so forth)? “I tell you what,” says one editor to another, “what do you say we publish a special feature on the care and feeding of pets?” “Not a bad idea,” says other editor, savvier than most, “but don’t you think we ought to run it by sales to see if there’s advertiser interest? I'd hate to think we spend all of that time talking to pet owners, vets, pet food manufacturers, and the APL, and doing all the research, and discover there’s no advertiser interest.”
There isn’t a consumer newspaper, magazine or trade press magazine out there—its editorial a reflection of subscriber demographics and interests—that does not publish those kinds of supplements, more often than not the brainstorms of sales, with one goal in mind: to attract advertiser dollars while supposedly publishing information readers are dying to read. As a matter of fact, you might say the primary reason publications create these supplements is to boost advertising revenues. To attract readership? A fringe benefit.
The Crain Award
In 2003 I was named the recipient of the Crain Award, awarded annually by ABM, the American Business Media, “to an individual who has made outstanding contributions to the development of editorial excellence in the business press.” It is a prestigious and coveted award. I was honored to get it, not, by the way, while I was with the magazine, but, “posthumorously,” five years after I left it.
ABM is the watchdog, it says here, “of business-to-business information providers.” Throughout my 27-years as the editor of a “business-to-business information provider” (Restaurant Hospitality), I tried to make “outstanding contributions to the development of editorial excellence in the business press.” Wasn’t easy.
While conscious of my role as “a [developer] of editorial excellence,” I was also en garde of the influence and insinuations of ad agencies and their advertisers and the thrusts of their attacks. Knowing that, I had little choice but to parry their thrusts, on occasion suffering a palpable hit. Mind you, I understood that parrying was part of the job as was suffering a palpable hit (both were painful and embarrassing). When the latter took place, it was not that my parrying lacked finesse, it was often that sales, having endured enough of advertiser cautions and threats, told me to back down, take a palpable hit for the team, as it were. Touché.
Was ABM ever mindful that any of this was going on? I have to believe it was. Was it ever aware of what editors had to put up with? I think so. Would it ever dare to admit that this sort of circumvention took place? No. But, if it did, should it not consider adding parrying and palpable hits to the award criteria? (Let me see, “The fewer the number of hits against the total number of parries are an indication of an editor’s endurance in the face of advertiser meddling”—criteria to be evaluated along with all of the others?) Naw. That wouldn’t work.
But this might; and I think it would help. At future presentations of the Crain Award, ABM should take some time (no more than a couple of minutes) to acknowledge 1) that editors, under the unseemly thumb of sales, are reluctant recruits in a war waged with advertisers and their ad agencies; 2) that the war is outrageous, foul, sleazy, and unacceptable (at least, ought to be); and 3) that editors, once engaged in battle, often are compelled to surrender their principles to the questionable claims of their sales people, themselves having already surrendered their principles to the questionable demands of advertisers and their agencies, their principles long ago cheapened and compromised.
No need, by the way, for ABM to waste any time disclosing if the battles were won or lost or how they were won or lost or if, having abandoned all hope, were white-flagged before they started. If, however, as editors battle, they continue to make “outstanding contributions to the development of editorial excellence in the business press,” then, perhaps, all is not lost. The award is justified and the editors have earned it. En garde, indeed.
A Corollary Quashed
That the sales arm of consumer and trade publications regularly presented to ad agencies and their clients the opportunity to trade advertising for editorial should be obvious by now. A correspondent parallel—a corollary in reverse, if you will—emerges when probing how many of the same agencies and their clients offered advertising to publications in exchange for editorial. It all unfolds here. Hang on to your hat.
Back Story: Who Are We Writing For? Advertisers or Readers?
We printed our editorial calendar, a shorthand preview of yearlong monthly features and departments, to coincide with the selling season (usually August/September). Long before it was trotted out at ad agency meetings, our sales staff scrupulously scrutinized it to make sure it contained everything that would please advertisers and their agencies and nothing that wouldn’t. Usually present at the scrupulous scrutiny were our group vice president, publisher, associate publisher, one or two local salespersons, and—as token staffers there to defend, as best they could, the content of the calendar —our executive and managing editors. Typical scrupulously scrutinizing conversation: Publisher to Editor: I see you’ve a six-month series of articles on “molecular gastronomy.” How come? Editor: That’s a growing trend and we want to stay on top of it. Publisher: I don’t see the advertiser benefit. Matter of fact, I don’t know of any of our advertisers who sell molecular gastronomy stuff. Editor: It isn’t stuff, it’s a concept. Our readers are interested in it, want to know more about it. They’ve told us as much. Publisher: A series? Editor: There’s a lot to write about and cover. Publisher: Not if our advertisers won’t support it there isn’t. I think a sidebar in our food section might suffice. Everyone agree?
Once approved internally, the calendar became an important sales tool at agency presentations. That’s what it was. That’s all it was; a sales tool, pure and simple. It had no other function. You might think it was information to share with our readers to let them know what to expect throughout the coming year, based on what they told us they’d like to read and what we assumed they’d like to read. We never did that. Why? Risky. Let’s say we share the calendar with our readers. They’re pleased; looking forward to stories we’re planning to publish, perhaps letting us know they have an idea for a story they think corresponds to a specific topic listed on the calendar, or perhaps suggesting topics we may have overlooked they would love to read. However, let’s say that an ad agency (takes only one), having reviewed the calendar, doesn’t approve of some of the stories we plan to publish (that happens, believe me) and that it would be a mistake to publish them. Would we mind reconsidering? Any doubt how we would react? How disappointed, then, are our readers going to be, anticipating the publication of stories they were looking forward to reading, only to find out we had killed one, some, or a few of them, not because we didn’t have the resources (or, let’s say, in some cases, the cajones) to write them, but because an ad agency didn’t think we should? What kind of magazine did we think we were running?
Our salespeople would review our calendar with agency boys and girls taking pains to point out the features and departments that might benefit the marketing efforts of their clients. If boys and girls agreed, then advertising could, should, would be a consideration and possibly could, should, would be forthcoming. And, if it was that (“consideration” or “forthcoming”), sales made sure editors were aware of either so that if and when the story was written, regardless of its slant, it must mention the agency’s client(s). On the other hand, if the calendar contained little of value deserving advertiser support then the agency (often, more than one), always without fail, would ask us, in a nice way, “if you wouldn’t mind adding a feature or two or three that our clients would appreciate,” especially (and here the implication was clear) if we had any hopes of seeing any advertising support. Likewise, we heeded its advice if, as noted, it suggested, in a nice way, we drop plans to publish a story it felt wasn’t appropriate; i.e., wouldn’t be a good idea, “given the current state of the industry.” We had no idea what they meant by that. To defend our choices or dispute theirs would be foolhardy. The agency had the upper hand. Agree with us? Advertising was a possibility. Disagree? Do I have to go there?
Uppermost was not what should we publish to please our readers, but what should we publish that would please our advertisers, a marketing expedient we felt would (we could only hope) pre-emptively neutralize any criticism of our editorial content. If we succeeded, we would then hopefully sidestep all repercussions, threats, and ad cancellations. Or so we thought. It was magazine publishing by what I liked to call “predisposition anticipation” (an anti-example of that coming up), the act of knowing ahead of time what to publish that wasn’t likely to piss-off advertisers. Most of the time we got it right. Stories about the state of the industry, about trends, education, marketing, labor that were so generic there was no chance we’d mention a product brand or the name of the manufacturer were OK, both reader and advertiser friendly, so long as we included nothing unfavorable or favorable about advertisers (potential and existing), their products or services. If we included something that might offend readers, not to worry: that was unimportant. However, if they took time to write to us (this was long before email) to tell us how displeased they were, that was always a plus. Letters were proof of readership. We even had a special section for that: Letters to the Editor.
Twice a year in May and September we published full-blown, in-depth, rather lengthy articles of hospitality companies (Marriott, left, and Restaurant Associates, below right, are two that come to mind).
Agencies liked (welcomed!) the idea of our company articles. No other magazine had ever done anything like that: they respected our request to keep the company names hush-hush. They even told us they’d think about placing their clients’ ads within those sections. There was, however, one drawback that, silly us, we never considered until . . . Well until, at one agency meeting, a sassy intern (there were plenty of them, fresh out of J-school, sprinkled throughout the foodservice business), determined to impress and make an impression, said she hoped (voiced not as wish, but as veiled threat) “we would never think of publishing an article about such and such a company because it never had bought or was planning to buy any of our client’s food and beverage products.” There you have it: example made; impression made: Noted. Advertising, a possibility or not: Noted. Such and such a company, agency blacklisted: Noted.
Years ago, we had plans to profile a company, unaware it might be “blacklisted”; that it might be on some agency’s shit-list. Turned out that an agency representing an advertiser with multi-thousands of dollars to spend on advertising, some of which might be spent with us, found out about our plans upon reading our pre-publication promotion. The agency contacted our publisher and told him it would not be in our best interests to do that, shit-list submitted as Exhibit A. With shit-list as proof, publisher spoke with editor. How could we possibly publish such a story and risk losing all of that advertising? Shit-list profile scratched. As always threats to our best interests were in our best interests and we were pleased third parties’ best interests were similar to ours. We reveled in a synergy of sympathetic best interests.
What to do? Easy. Now basking in the glow of our synergies, we went back to the drawing board to find a replacement that would please advertisers, but only after we contacted their respective agencies, advised them of our decision, kissed their butts, and promised from that day forward to let them know what companies we were planning to write about (or, “maybe you can recommend one of your unshit-list favorites?”). See? Synergy.
Now, enter hucksteramous ingratiatinous. When the word got around of what we did (and we made sure it did), agencies liked that. We liked they liked that we did that, so we jumped at the opportunity to strengthen our relationships with them (couldn’t hurt, right?). To the degree that it was deemed acceptable—in retrospect, a laughable consideration—we aligned ourselves with their missions while clearly diluting ours. I think they knew that. More to the point, they didn’t really care. Neither did we. In that instance we became not a magazine—ABM, please take note—but an ad agency adjunct with suck-up privileges. We had moved to the head of its class.
The “anti-predisposition anticipation” tale or lesson learned. First, indulge me: why bother violating the heart of predisposition anticipation (to refresh: “predisposition anticipation: the act of knowing ahead of time what to publish that wasn’t likely to piss-off advertisers”) when we knew that in doing so it was risky? Because, quite frankly, we felt readers would benefit. How silly was that?
Here we go: a story of a restaurant and how its one-of-a-kind piece of kitchen equipment made by so-and-so manufacturer helped to lower its operating costs and increase productivity and bring fame and fortune to the restaurant, might seem, at first glance, to be one helluva story, one that readers ought to relish. And you’d be right except for one glaring oversight: we never should’ve named the manufacturer (we did) or, for that matter, the brand name of the equipment it manufactured (we didn’t). Shame on us if we had done either or both, although readers (don’t you think?) would want to know that, especially if they wanted to learn more about the product, its cost and maybe where they could buy it.
That the product was one of a kind—so unique that no other manufacturer made it or had thought of making it—didn’t matter. That wasn’t the issue. What was, was what the competition thought. Through the mouthpieces of their agencies, prepared at the drop of a hat to argue on behalf of their clients (didn’t want to lose the account, you know), agencies would argue thusly: “Don’t you see that the company your editor mentioned in his article also makes other pieces of kitchen equipment (some just like the ones we make) and weren’t you (the magazine), by inference, drawing attention to that, thereby placing us at a competitive disadvantage?” Solution A? Never name the brand or the manufacturer that made it. For whom did we think we were publishing: readers or advertisers? Predisposition anticipation: never forget on which side your bread is buttered. Solution B: agency to editor. “You know, if you want to mention that product and the brand, why not do that in your New Product section.” Of course. “But, only if the company is an advertiser or a potential one.” Of course.
The Impromptu Sales Call or “Predisposition Anticipation” Incarnate
At restaurant shows and major conferences (large and small), our sales people would take editors by the hand and walk them to manufacturer and commodity booths. There, we’d talk to anyone— marketers, sales execs, PR folk—about what our magazine might be able to do editorially to help them promote their products. This was our version of an agency sales “presentation” on the fly, ad-libbed and extemporaneous. Once we learned what the company was exhibiting—was it something special, unique, competitively superior, and if it was how was it planning to promote it?—we asked if there was anything we could do to help (we were willing to do anything). “We are here to help. Give my editor brochures, press releases, glossies. He would love to interview you. He will take notes. Tell him anything. He will do something with anything or something with nothing. He will be more than happy to suck up. Not to worry, I’ve seen it happen. Trust me.” Before we strolled on to the next booth, there was a flurry of business card swapping, a bustle of thank-yous (call us anytime, let’s do lunch: those kinds of thank-you laced sweeteners), and really vigorous handshakes. All was right with our world and theirs.
That Seagram Guy
The main job of the Seagram ad agency guy was to buy advertising for Seagram in trade press foodservice magazines (one of them,Restaurant Hospitality). He had other jobs, I’m sure, but I had no idea what they were, although some of us suspected he fancied himself an expert on distilled spirits and so promoted himself as such, He was, sorry to say, not a very pleasant guy, his conduct a lopsided and cagey balance between intimidation and ad agency sophistry.
We were never too sure what to say to him or if we should say anything to him whenever we bumped into him at a show or a conference. We were never too sure what he would say or if he would say anything. When we parted company, we were never too sure what he had said or why he had said it or what we had said or why we had said it. There was little depth, theme or substance to our conversations. We were cautious: simultaneously feckless and solicitous.
During the 27 years I was with the magazine, Seagram bought thousands of dollars of advertising with us, but, by the same token, killed just as much, often because we may have placed its ad too close to a competitor or on a left-hand page, instead of a right (the preferred spot), or we had neglected to include pictures of or blurbs about Seagram products whenever we ran a story (any story) about alcoholic beverages, Seagram-relevant or not. When would we ever learn, was the ad-killing scolding. We committed other blunders, but none, it seemed, quite so unforgivable as those.
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| Booze, hooch? Nope: beverage alcohol and don’t you forget it. |
Seagram guy was no different from most of his counterparts (gleeful nitpickers all) at other foodservice ad agencies strewn about the country. To better understand what made him and others of his ilk tick, I want to share with you my very own, very personal, and, you might think, very biased composite of what most foodservice ad agency boys and girls were like when I was an editor and every once in a while would find myself accompanying our publisher and salespersons to agency sales meetings, a tour of duty I dreaded.
I think I was asked by sales to tag along because I was the only one on staff with the knowledge —correction, with the credibility—to talk about industry concerns, needs, issues, and trends and how our magazine covered all of that. At least that’s what sales thought. Furthermore, I ask you: how much credibility, regardless of their smarts, would rate-card-carrying salespersons have? Their job was to sell space. I was the editor. My job was to cover the industry; to know what was going on in it. Sadly, I was little more than window dressing, paraded before agency boys and girls as the virtuous editor not yet corrupted by sales’ slavishness (op.cit., the divide between sales and editorial) who might have something significant to say provided agency boys and girls give a shit.
(FYI: from this point forward agency boys and girls will be known as The Composites or, simply, TCs.)
An agency’s welcome when our group arrived for our presentation was typically lukewarm even though it acknowledged (always condescendedly) that we were there to make a presentation that conceivably (one never knows) might contain something of value. What took place was never pleasant. While there I was able to note and record what ad agency TCs do, helping me piece together what makes them tick, bits and pieces about to unfold forthwith.
Although a discussion of what was going on in the industry was on meeting agendas and I was the only one “qualified” to talk about those kinds of things, I sensed TCs regarded my presence as an intrusion, my knowledge of what was happening in the industry, incomplete and superficial. After all, neither I nor the magazine was the authority. I knew that and so did TCs. Far more influential powers held those cards: research and development organizations; consultants (former r&d bigshots); firms that predicted the future of foodservice with a gridlock of statistics and data no one could decipher, especially when power-point projected onto huge screens at industry functions; trend-tracking companies that glorified as trend a fad dead on arrival; a slew of consumer foodservice magazines; commercial foodservice associations; noncommercial foodservice associations; commodity groups of every stripe eager to protect their brand and preserve their preeminence; and an assortment of groups, lollygagging on the periphery of foodservice, itching to contribute something of value if only they had something of value to say.
Why should TCs listen to me or believe what they read in our magazine? All we did was report on the morphing or demorphing of industry activity affected by slowly emerging or decaying trends; review industry opportunities and developments; analyze industry experts’ beliefs and suppositions; and finally dissect a host of arguments, premises, and contentions based on the opinions of industry know-it-alls whose sole purpose, it seemed, was to challenge or contradict infallible research. Sorry about that: alleged infallible research.
There was little I could tell them they did not already know or could source (and they said as much) even though I had anecdotal tidbits of industry activity and amusements—some of them implausible and bizarre, some, a shade prurient—I was chomping at the bit to divulge that might add to their better understanding of industry stuff they could not ever source elsewhere.
I was given a set amount of time for my presentation, during which TCs would come and go as they please, chatter aimlessly, reach for a bagel to schmear it, or duck out to make or take a phone call or piss. By their gestures, motions, idle asides and chitchats, wristwatch-checking and yawnings made sure I knew that they knew more than I did.
At that time, there were no iPhones, iPads or laptops; otherwise no telling what sort of disruptions I would have had to put up with. Although we were advised to talk about industry activity (who was doing what to whom and how were they doing it) we knew, going in, that segment of the pitch was subordinate to everything else we were scheduled to present. At one of our presentations, a senior ad agency v.p. interrupted mine and said, “Please tell us something we don’t know. You are indulging in redundancies; questionable redundancies at that. We have heard all of that before,” followed by this snarky slight: “The magazine that preceded you covered all of that.” You could tell he was suffering. Everybody was suffering, no one more than I. They suffered my presentation. I suffered their audacity, frivolousness, condescension, arrogance, inattention, agitation, belittling (especially their belittling), pretension, insolence. All about me was a suffocation of suffering, of despair. Why were we there? I couldn’t wait to get out; and, I presume, they couldn’t wait for our entourage to get out.
Agency Gambits and Gamesmanship
Some TCs delighted in watching publishers and their salespersons squirm. Remember, I was there at times to observe the squirming, doing my best not to be among those squirming: I was not burdened, as were they, with sales baggage and their contents. TC strategy to induce squirming was to question every statement and proposal of our pitch not because they wanted answers, but because harassing publications was one of the ways they asserted their control and command of our presentation. That, by the way, effectively placed our sales people on the defensive, forcing them to explain everything even that which needed no explanation. It was as if TCs were saying, “How can you expect us to reward you with advertising if you can’t justify your pitch?”
Anything else? There was also this unpleasant component of the presentation, realistically, the heart (like it or not) of it; the failsafe reminder of why we were there. If the arrangement between our magazine and the agency called for deals that would result in the exchange of editorial for advertising, then it was best to have the editor involved and present if only to sort out and debate all of the options for the exchange and to signal to the agency that he was comfortable with the arrangement, regardless of how repellent he felt it and its execution were.
Said TCers, “Can you help us out by doing this? We can’t promise anything in return—you know how scarce ad dollars are—but if you can do so-and-so it might help [truer words were never spoken].” Needless to say, promises when granted were from time to time shattered, doomed to 11th-hour agency reneging based on bullshit bullshitted before or after the publication had fulfilled its end of the bargain. Exaggeration? I don’t think so. That scenario occurred often enough, its outcome so predictable that it not only became the norm but an acceptable consequence of doing business with TCs to include putting up with their apologies oozing self-reproach. As if that mattered. Regrets were profuse; not so, options.
Meetings were open-ended, either held at our offices or in a hotel conference room (TC travel expenses, our treat, a benefit we hoped would lead to bigger and better things). On the other hand, presentations (the formal equivalent of the meeting) were on-demand, by invitation only, scheduled timed events, always held at TC’s or the client’s offices. Wherever and whenever we met, we talked about our “guaranteed and qualified” circulation, advertising rates, readership, the strength and significance of our editorial (our editorial calendar the mother lode of ideas), and readership—not readership, mind you, in terms of what, specifically, our readers were reading, but what percentage of them said they actually read the fucking thing.
Time permitting, we would even schedule a review of the state of the industry: what was going on there and what were the trends to watch, presumably to give agencies and their clients a leg up on the competition. But we were told often to backburner all of that; that was regarded as incidental (fancy that).
At every juncture of our discussion, before one topic would segue to the next, we paused and asked if there were questions. We hoped there would be some, an indication, we felt, of interest in our pitch. We hoped for questions. We hoped they wanted elaboration, justification.
Readership Studies: A Break in the Action
Speaking of “reading the fucking thing,” we decided—late in the game—that it would be a good idea to subscribe to a readership study. We had held off because of the cost. None of them was cheap and we had, after all, our own study to crow about, a crowing that usually fell on deaf ears because of the obvious in-house bias of it. Inevitably, we gave in. We took the plunge when ad agencies, citing that our competition was using them, told us it would be a good idea if we did too. And, if we did (of course, we did: after all, there was that fourth-place slot we’d be in danger of relinquishing if we didn’t) agencies and advertisers would know, based on the results of the study (Starch was the one we used), what our readers were reading and what they thought of everything they read from editorial to advertising and whether the juxtaposition of one with the other made any difference either in sales, readership, brand recognition, or brand awareness.
For instance, if we placed a client’s ad opposite one of our stories or editorials and it scored higher than one in a like position in a competitor’s magazine, was that not sufficient proof of the superior quality of our editorial; and wouldn’t that convince the client’s agency to use our magazine exclusively? Pseudosyllogistically, of course. Realistically, not a chance. That sort of argument weighing in on an ad agency’s decision was symptomatic of the blather spewed by auxiliary services —in this case, a readership study—intended to prove their acceptance, credibility, dynamic, and importance. It was as if they were saying, “How can you possibly review, analyze, and select a publication for your client’s ads without assessing the proof we provide? Is that not evidence enough to influence your choices, your decisions?” Of course. Could we not see that, pseudosyllogistically or not?
Didn’t seem to matter if the readership study’s survey asked readers about advertising or editorial. The questions asked were essentially the same for both. I could never spot a distinction:
“Did you see the ad; did you see the editorial? Did you read it? What drew you to it: the headline; the copy; the illustrations; the brand; the byline? Was it interesting? Did you believe what you read? Was it informative? Something you expected? Business relevant? Will it improve your business? Was it helpful? Did you enjoy reading it? Was it eye-catching, nicely laid out? How about the pictures, illustrations, graphs, drawings? Appealing, not helpful, lame, unnecessary. The content? Too long, too short, just right? Tiresome or interesting? Lie or truth; crock or valid? Did you notice the story next to the ad and vice versa? Would either juxtaposition affect how you feel about the product; convince you to buy it or ignore it?”
It wasn’t gobbledygook, but it was pretty damn close, especially if the purpose of the study was to find out the specific impact and significance of ads and editorial comporting on the same stage; and the interrelationships between the two (another spin on sales/editorial intercourse): were they phony, loving, disingenuous, inseparable, discrete.
It never ceased to amaze me that agencies, for the most part, selected a publication for its client’s advertising based not on the value and impact of the product and/or the content of our presentation, but on third-party evaluations of the product, evaluations far removed from the mission of the publication which was, I believe, to inform its readers about what was going on in the industry and how to deal with it to make their foodservice operations profitable and productive. There was one other criteria that guided the selection process, far more removed from third-party evaluations. I’ll get to that soon.
A Presentation in Buffalo
Meetings and presentations were more opportunities for TCs to control the flow and intent of the presentation and to bully the presenter. Trust me, TCs didn’t much care about our presentations even when we touched on topics we felt might interest them: i.e., rates, cost per thousand, editorial arrangements, and so forth. TCs tried very hard to feign interest in what we were presenting though we sensed they had already made up their minds as to which magazines would receive the lion’s share of their clients’ advertising, regardless of how persuasive and convincing our pitch was, despite TCs relentless nagging and harassing every aspect of our presentation. That didn’t matter. What did were the deals the agency could cut with the magazines on behalf of itself and its clients. Much more about that later.
And yet . . . and yet, it was at a Buffalo-based agency where its executive (the exception that proves the rule) was, no doubt about it, interested in what we had to present. He listened. He had questions. He challenged us to defend damn near everything we presented.
He refused to buy as fact assumptions he claimed bordered on the absolute, that left no room for argument, adjustment or debate. He questioned every last one of them. Some, he said, were invalid, inexcusable, indefensible; some were downright ludicrous; and he would not let us get away with any of that. Presumptions were worse. They implied indisputable conviction and that, as far as he was concerned, was nonsense. He knew the industry inside and out and was rarely caught off guard by any of the observations, convictions, assumptions, presumptions we made. If they were obscure or relatively unknown, he demanded to know our source. “Where do you come off with this? Where did you get this stuff? None of this makes any sense.” As far as I could tell, he was the only agency TC who insisted on questioning the validity of everything we presented, even though we hoped (presumptions, a case in point) he wouldn’t notice. Whereas at other agency presentations, nobody seemed to care (let alone listen) or notice, Buffalo agency TC did. He was interested in what we had to say; what we had to present. He was interested in the debate, in the exchange of values and insights. I remember him saying, “We are all here to learn from each other. Never let it be said that we cannot teach each other a few things. Isn’t that the hidden agenda of all of this?”
There were moments when he would depart from his line of questioning about the state of the industry and our plans to write about it and concentrate instead on the idea, value, and worth of our magazine. To him that was as important a part of the presentation as was our spiel about the industry. He wanted to know why our magazine was important? If it failed or went out of business would anyone care or notice? Would anyone miss it? What does your magazine offer that your competition doesn’t? Please explain your mission statement. (Today, “The latest news, trend coverage, big ideas, innovative solutions and more . . .” Back then, “The magazine of high-volume restaurant management.” Don’t ask.)
He reviewed our editorial calendar (remember that?) month by month and when he came across story ideas that made little or no sense, he wanted to know why covering such and such an event or trend or person was significant and how could it possibly be of reader interest. He wasn’t criticizing. He was looking for answers. What deep dark secrets had we uncovered that would convince us to write about these things, about these people? Had he overlooked something? He really wanted to know. We did not have the heart to tell him.
He argued that if the magazine was to function as an indispensable resource for our readers, then it follows it should also be that for our advertisers; but not if our editorial was frivolous and unimportant. He wanted to make sure that if he were to allocate a percent of a client’s budget to magazine advertising, that he was going to spend it wisely on a publication that had a pretty good idea of what it was doing and why it was doing it. He never asked for favors.
TC Gambits
As refreshing and, yes, uplifting (to me, at least; most of our sales people were scared shitless before, during, and after the meeting—the after part, most instructive as sales debated the effectiveness of their participation in and contributions to the pitch: “Did we nail it?” was the question most often asked) as the meetings in Buffalo were, our meetings elsewhere fell short. I suspect that the only reason TCs scheduled meetings was not to find out more about us and what we might be able to do for them, but to prove to their clients that they were earning and, in the process, justifying their fee by doing exactly what they were asked and expected to do: schedule meetings. The agenda wasn’t important, neither was the TC’s interest in and discussion of it.
As if to impress clients they were doing what they were asked to do, agencies often invited key clients to audit presentations and to ask questions, although the latter was neither expected nor mandatory. If clients accepted the invitations, their presence altered dramatically the agency’s conduct at the proceedings to say nothing of the quality of the refreshments.
With clients attending, TCs and suck-up interns (future TCs to be) unloaded at the outset a barrage of questions asking us to explain in detail how what we had to offer might affect their client’s business; but, regardless of the clarity of our answers (which TCs regarded with disdain and an obvious disinterest), more questions surfaced, the intent to trip us up and/or to impress the client. Were we to answer them confidently, seamlessly and lucidly, we had a feeling there would be hints (subject to the approval of the client) of an advertising contract. Why else bother with questions-escalatio unless there was dangling—carrot-like—the possibility of advertising? Or maybe it was just one more opportunity for TCs to daunt, harass, or just be pains in the ass; to prove, once more to themselves and to attending clients, that they, not us, were in control. No matter how crystal-clear our answers, no matter how informative our perspective, TCs would never allow us to trump their authority. If they sensed we were doing that—the possibility that we might embarrass them in front of a client —they would interrupt, squelch our responses and ask us to move on to the next topic. “We understand what you are trying to say, no need for further discussion; can we please move on to the next item on your agenda?” The presentation continued like that: a series of TC ambushes designed to embarrass, divide and conquer; ultimately, to impress the client with their contrived dominance.
Bones of Contention
If our circulation figures were less or more than those we divulged at a meeting six months or a year ago, affecting either up or down our advertising cost-per-thousand, TCs wanted to know if we were prepared to lower our rates if circulation was less, but never to raise them if more. Also, if we were prepared to hold our rates, would we still be willing to cut a deal?
If our editorial calendar made no note of special features about a client’s product or service, TCs wanted to know why. Even though our sin of omission might result in the client never running ads with us, we took pains to explain (now, in defense mode) that it was most likely (enter buck-passing) an innocent mistake, the fault of our editors or that of our marketing department or our printer and that we would take steps to fix it.
Once having promised to revise the calendar according to the wishes, needs, demands of the agency, we then offered TCs, while glancing at the client, one more opportunity to exchange advertising for editorial or a special feature on anything that struck their fancy and, in addition, (as bonus) to include several new-product releases in our New Products department. By the way, just in case you’re wondering: like every other trade press publication, we did have an entire department given over to “new products.” None of them ever was. New, that is. Didn’t matter. If an agency was touting a client’s product that had been around since the dawn of civilization, it expected to see it featured as “new” in that department several times a year.
The Width, Height, and Depth of a Perversion
The following story you may find hard to believe, but—trust me—it’s true. It was the job of a well-respected agency exec (a most excellent and revered TC) to measure the square-inch of every product mention (photos were a plus) we ran in one month for all of the agency’s clients (they had a bunch of them). The square-inch total of the products earned a dollar-value based on its percent of what we currently charged for a full-page (8- by 10-inch) ad.
He regarded product mentions not only as our “gift” equivalent to ad space, but necessary to maintain a “relationship” with him; a relationship that understood—no questions asked—what our role was vis-à-vis his. The relationship had little to do between us and the agency; it had everything to do between us and him. Let me explain: if he approved of the “gift,” he thanked us and told us to continue. If he didn’t approve, he cautioned us to do a better job. If we published most of the “new products” of his clients, he was pleased. If we missed some, especially since he had taken pains to send us elaborate press releases and photo glossies (some in color) of them, he was not pleased.
Often, during our scheduled meetings, intent on proving the accuracy of his calculations, out would come his pica stick and a stack of all the product mentions we had published in the current month and with much fanfare, as the president of the company looked on approvingly, he would demonstrate his measuring skills in front of us. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, pleased as punch. “That’s what we’re talking about,” said the president, a diminutive sort with a bad temper who yelled and threw stuff, sometimes a chair or two.
How Now Fucking Up?
There was rarely, if at all—as previously noted—any sign of a difference between editorial and sales (and the latter’s intimacy with TCs) in the dozen or more trade press foodservice magazines. We were as guilty as the rest; but, at least we were circumspect. With some of the magazines, the intimacies were so obvious, it was painful to watch. The ad agencies representing food and equipment companies were well-aware of that. They took advantage whenever they could: they were never above making “requests” (or the nuanced implication of one) for stories.
What might happen if a magazine refused to yield to “requests” to publish a story in exchange for ads (the magazine’s excuse, if ever it had one, was always something silly about standards of publishing ethics and excellence)? Not a problem. Advertising dollars earmarked for the yield-reluctant magazine were awarded to one of several others (runners-up earlier in the ad selection process, now front-runners) not only delighted to have been selected, but eager to wallow in the aftermath of their good fortune to prove how delighted they were to have trumped a competitor. The more fawning the wallowing, the better their chances of being front-runners in the future provided they continued to publish client-related stories and to apple-polish the agency. It was that easy.
Ad position in the magazine for agency clients was critical. If we fucked up, goodbye ad followed by our promise to run a “make-good” (a free ride; i.e., restitution), in whatever issue the agency, not the magazine, selected. If we ran a story about deep-fat fryers and forgot to include the name of a kitchen equipment company (aka advertiser) that manufactured them. Guess what? Fucked up, again. Variations on these fuck-up-themes occurred often.
TCs were always on the lookout for reasons to kill an ad program should we publish something they construed (key word) might adversely affect their client’s sales, damage its image or soil its reputation. If we ever did that, bye-bye ad or ad program. Didn’t matter if it was an oversight: what we did, TCs insisted, was deliberate. If we protested, we were told “we should’ve known better.” But what about our stellar ass-kissing: didn’t that count for something? Sorry. Ditto, our excuse for forgetting (“excuses are the crutches of the guilty,” one of the TCs told me, a homily he may have picked up from a “Peanuts” comic strip). What they needed—correction, what they craved (it was an addiction)—was one more opportunity to flex their muscles to prove to us, to clients and especially to our competitors how powerful they were. No publication, they warned, regardless of the intensity of their ass-kissing, was going to get away with anything. Were that warning genuine one might imagine it a pillar of TC values.
The Sins of Our Publisher
In the aftermath of the fuck-up there was always a chance for redemption. That we knew. TCs knew that, too. They would wait (in anticipation of the inevitable) for our publisher to come crawling back begging for forgiveness. He would do that—of course he would: was there ever any doubt?—armed with penitent-soaked offers of expensive dinners at fancy restaurants or all-expense-paid rounds of golf at very private and pricey golf courses (nearby hotel room, our expense) or invitations to extraordinary pricey events where he would confess his sins and learn, in the wake of his confession, how many more Hail Marys (dinners) or Our Fathers (rounds of golf or special events) he must utter (propose) before TCs might forgive him. How many dinners, how many rounds of golf, how many special events you ask? Don’t be silly: depended on the severity of the fuck-up. The cost of our penance was in direct proportion to the egregiousness of the fuck-up. Every once in a while there were gifts. It was as if a gift registry—similar to those for brides—was maintained somewhere by a conspiracy of agency TCs listing names of client principals and the kind of reward they’d expect in exchange for leniency and the restitution of ads and/or ad program. “I think you ought to know that one of your competitors did this. Can you match that; do something better?”
Redemption and Penance: Beyond Fuck-Ups or Backscratching Squared
TCs’ pursuit of our largesse was relentless: they always wanted more. Never mind the fuck-up (or even if there had been one), the situation, or the circumstance. Forget the golf games and the fancy dinners; those were restitutions for our behaving badly. We had atoned; the choice of the atonement based on what we thought was acceptable which always, needless to say, exceeded expectations. Of course, it did. We wanted to make sure we were atoning acceptably so as not to offend TCs’ impression (or what we might have thought was their impression) of what was acceptable. Although TCs never thanked us for our often extravagant atoning (that would be unacceptable) we assumed they were grateful. Even so, they were never pleased; we knew that.
This is what we assumed TCs assumed: if we were able to devise elaborate restitution to mend a fuck-up, might we not also devise unfuck-up favors based on our undying love for them? If, say, there was an opportunity to offer dinners, golf games, what-have-you as suck-up bonuses (absent of restitution) to TCs at, let’s say, a national or regional convention or an association meeting where all of us (agencies, clients, and publications) gathered, met, coalesced, drank heavily, and cavorted mawkishly, we’d pounce.
Our pouncing was a sight to behold. You had to be there. Publisher versus publisher, sales manager versus sales manager each pouncing (some of it, as noted, mawkishly) to outdo or upstage the other with outlandish offers of incredibly expensive offers impossible to turn down unless another sales manager or publisher, having gotten wind of the incredibly expensive offer, trumped it with an offer even more outlandish and incredibly expensive. Everyone was on unrestricted expense accounts, expenses charged against a budget constantly under review, inflated, or changed impulsively based on the expediency of the magazine/agency relationship. Occasionally, an editor was brought in to mawkish, but only after being taught how to do that.
Had pouncing of that nature taken place at any other venue, say, for the sake of argument, a subdued, yet seriously sensitive, not-to-be-missed one- to two-day gathering headlined by a distinguished industry personality speaking on “empowering Millenials and the impending crisis of best practices,” there would have been a mad dash to the vomitorium.
As noted, there were other treats TCs felt we owed them (the pursuit of our largesse), not in exchange for our behaving badly, but out of respect for our alleged love and regard for them.
I swear TCs had a list of every major industry function at which their attendance would not only be noticed, but recognized (an imperative of their worth); and, if there was a way to attend them without having to pay the price of admission, they knew what to do. If, for example, they found out, last minute, we were attending one of those major industry functions—a prestigious culinary bash (black tie optional) or wine-tasting or elaborate restaurant or foodservice association fundraiser—and we had sprung for a table, they wanted to know if there was an extra seat. There never was, but we sure as hell would find one, even if it meant bumping someone on staff, usually an editor there to cover the event for the magazine. Also, if we had bought a table at a special event and failed to invite someone from a certain agency or advertiser, he or she wanted to know why we had the gall to ignore her or him. We begged forgiveness or proposed a dinner.
If an important industry function called for registrations from members only and non-member TC said he or she would like to attend, we’d find ways to get him or her invited as our guest. Fringe benefit? If we were not in the act of repenting we’d still get him or her in. At least we had a marker for our next fuck-up. Or, so we thought. When we knew we had to sugarcoat our sucking up, we’d go out of our way to invite an agency hotshot to join us at a function. Our treat.
That was the price publisher, badly behaving or not, knew he had to pay if ever he wanted to see another ad from the client. That was the price agencies and/or their clients extracted from the publisher. Whether at dinner, golf game, or special event, what mattered (surely we knew this) was not the entertainment (that was secondary: wink, wink). This was a business meeting (did we not understand?) and if we were present as repentant fuck-ups we needed to understand we were there to suffer TCs’ wrath as they explained why we were fuck-ups, how we had fucked up, why we had fucked up, and, finally, “what are you going to do about it in case you fuck up again?” It was all a game, planned and premeditated—the consequence of con, as we tried to anticipate the TC’s next move.
What followed were months of our publisher agonizing (more golf games, more dinners, more special events) over the crushing loss (or anticipated crushing loss) of ad revenue. He would send us memos reminding us of our naughtiness (with copies to TCs letting them know of our contrition), warning us not to write anything inappropriate or worse about the client. Acknowledging our remorse, TCs would eventually restore the ad program or request a meeting to talk about restoration but only after extracting promises “to never again sully the name of our client.” That was how TCs put it; that was, in effect, how they uttered it; and, we knew, if we were to ignore the threat, they would beget something apocalyptic.
Our magazine’s publisher at the time, a somewhat timorous sort (I’m being kind), having read my column, “The Business of Women, Part 1: Michaelides vs. Nicholas,” in blueline, killed it, thinking it too critical of Seagram and its “magazine.” To him my column was enough proof that Seagram’s TC might beget something apocalyptic.
I still thought that making a statement about gender discrimination was in our readers’ best interests, so to keep my message intact, I sanitized it. Somewhat. I deleted references to the name of the publication, the distiller that published it and that of the restaurateur profiled in it. My essay appeared in our next issue. The restaurateur profiled, Nick Nicholas (aka Richard Richardson), an on-again/off-again contributor to Restaurant Hospitality, decided to on-again write a rebuttal: “The Business of Women, Part 2: Nicholas vs. Michaelides.”
Booze, hooch? Monticello
