What's With the Staff at FFL?

Sometimes people ask me: what's it like to work at Foods For Living? Should I apply? Are the employees really as smart/snooty/smiley/weird as they seem!? I thought I'd share some personal impressions. The following meandering reflections are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Foods For Living, but come on, they probably kinda do.

This post is more specifically about Foods For Living than most. You've been warned.


When I was in college, the word "culture" meant something distinct. I understood culture in the context of undergrad anthropology. People across the globe ate different foods, made different music, worshiped different gods. Culture. I got it.

It was only when I left the warm embrace of academic definitions to become a real grownup that "culture" began to take on a more sinister aspect. If you've ever had the pleasure of working for a corporation that takes itself seriously, you know what I mean. You've heard all about their "culture."

I remember sitting in an atmospherically-lit basement conference room, surrounded by scented candles, learning to recite the "creed" of my new employer's "culture" via a call-and-response mantra. I even got a medal embossed with our "culture's core values." Then we watched a video that included an animated duck.

When I worked at a prominent Fortune 10 company, we watched videos about "improving our culture," and doing more to emulate that zenith of all corporate cultures: Disney. I suggested having more rides, more fun, or doing anything, whatsoever, that Disney does, instead of intentionally losing our customers in a fog of tech and sales blather. This was not received well; apparently, being snarky wasn't part of our culture, either.

When I applied at Foods For Living, I wasn't sure what to expect. I mean, FFL always seemed refreshingly informal from the outside, but I knew they were successful, and ambitious, and where those things abound, the trappings of nascent "corporate culture" are often close behind. I also knew they are employee-owned, and that seemed like it might invite an extra layer of bureaucracy and dead-seriousness.

My interview mostly concerned the death of music as a physical medium (like CDs), and the advent of electronic media, and how this meant that people were largely their own guides in the modern sonic landscape. (As opposed to the old days, when some snobby record store owner would be a begrudging--or eager--Sherpa, personalizing your purchase. And judging it.) It was a great interview, but a bit confusing. Where was the stuff about "swapping best practices?" It's almost like my interviewer gave me credit for knowing about the concept of "customer service" in advance. This "I'll assume you're smart until proven otherwise" attitude was the absolute inversion of my previous experience. The hiring guy—who I came to know later as Chris, the Silver Wizard (a name he most certainly did not give himself), navigates largely by intuition. He loves music, I love music, and he got us talking informally so he could assess all sorts of things about my personality without the formality that stiffens most interviews.

That's not to say that FFL doesn't take its hiring seriously—any employee-owned business knows it is potentially taking on full-time employees for the long haul. And that's precisely why intention, even "spirit," is often more important than experience. Because anything can be taught—except character.

This was obvious during the months that followed. Much of the staff worked and played together. There were volleyball and basketball games (not explicitly endorsed or arranged by FFL, dear corporate lawyers). People lent each other games and books and lots of knowledge. People didn't guard their belongings in the back, because, seriously, you don't have to worry about that here. (And there are always a dozen people back there anyway.)

New ideas weren't struck down as silly (unless they were). If you had an idea and wanted to put the work in to make it happen, it would happen.

But beneath all the surf-shop hijinks, there pulsed a strong business model. As FFL's own founder once told me, "The 'Hey Man' business model doesn't work.'" Employees can't be late. They have to show up, and tell the truth about why if they can't. They have to check in the back for extra stock, even when they're 87% sure there isn't any. They have to try and keep the store clean. They have to watch trends, and crunch numbers while they're crunching granola. Business is still serious business.

All the extras, though? That comes from someone you see every time you walk in. If there's a product, feature, or sample that you love in the store, it's because someone who works there individually decided it was delicious or worthy. I often had to explain to customers who referred to "corporate" or our "central office" that there was no such thing. As the sole location, owned and operated by people on-site, Foods For Living is a fluid, ever-shifting place. Like a Christopher Nolan movie with more organic produce.

This means that its destiny, as an employer and as a member of the community, is affected by every person who walks in the door, whether they wear the green apron or not. Every voice is heard. That's why Susie is subtly debuting her "Every voice is heard at FFL" tattoo in that picture.

The store is the first job for many, and it may be the last job for at least a few. For most, it is simply a stop along the long road of life, where the staff endeavors to warm you up, crack a joke, put some chocolate in your pocket, and send you on your way. The goal is for everyone to leave the store a little better than they came in. To the people of Foods For Living, that's just part of the culture, and—thanks goodness— they're too cool to put it that way.