“Your ingredient costs are way up.” Professor Hunt sat behind her desk, flipping through our financials with a red pen in hand. “They hit 38% of revenue last month.”
“I know,” Meg said, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s really bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s a concern, no doubt. But your staff costs are low relative to your revenue, at only 22%, which removes some of the sting.”
“Meg’s a tyrant when it comes to staff efficiency,” I said, half-smiling.
“But we’ve both underreported our own hours,” she added, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d guess a more accurate number would be 26%.”
“26% is still good for labor costs,” Professor Hunt replied, tapping her pen against the margin. “And your other costs are all under control. Rent is down from 13% when Ty took over to only 7%, which is a reflection of how much more revenue you’re earning.” She flipped another page. “I’m not seeing anything on marketing.”
“The marketing budget has pretty much disappeared,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me. “Other than free social media posts and periodic emails to our list, we’re not doing anything. Word just keeps spreading organically.”
“Remember, all these numbers are just rules of thumb,” Professor Hunt said, setting the papers down. “The only number that truly matters is your bottom line. And your profits are up.”
“For the first time, people are starting to talk about the quality of the pizza,” I said. “Now that there’s a product worth coming in for, students are showing up in greater and greater numbers. During peak meal times, we can barely handle the volume.”
“Sounds to me like it’s time to raise prices,” Professor Hunt said, matter-of-factly. “You upped your ingredient cost to make a higher-quality product. Now you’re almost at the point where you can’t handle the demand. Don’t get overwhelmed by selling a premium product at a discounted price.”
“What if fewer people buy?” I asked. My voice came out softer than I intended.
“With more profit per slice, you can afford to drop some customers. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you still filled up. Most people enjoy premium products.”
“Some students won’t be able to afford it,” I said. A knot formed in my stomach. I remembered all too well what it was like to scrounge for food.
“Those students can pick from their choice of discount pizzerias,” Hunt said. “None of them will starve.”
“No, but…” My voice fizzled out. Something didn’t feel right.
“Listen to me, Ty.” Professor Hunt lowered her glasses and pinned me with a look. “You need to avoid a race to the bottom.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Where each pizzeria tries to position itself as the low-cost option and keeps dropping its prices and losing margin to gain customers. What would happen then?”
This time Meg jumped in. “We’d keep working harder for less and less profit.”
“Exactly.” Hunt leaned back. “Let the other pizzerias battle it out over who will be the cheapest. You position yourselves as the best.”
“Definitely,” Meg said, nodding. “Let’s aim for the customers who will gladly pay more for a better product.” This was easier for her than for me. She’d always loved premium. Her avatar had been a partner in a law firm who was married to an investment banker. She had no problem billing hundreds of dollars for a single, perfect birthday cake for a two-year-old.
“Ty, I see you turning green,” Professor Hunt said.
“It’s not my avatar,” I replied. “I created a fun hangout for ordinary college students. I sell cheap slices to kids who are pinching pennies.”
“Ty, what are you planning on doing next year?” Hunt asked, pivoting abruptly.
I blinked. “I’m still hoping to do junior year abroad. I’ve been accepted into this business program in London. Why?”
“But you haven’t committed yet?”
“After the Michael disaster, I want to be 100% sure Meg can handle things on her own before deciding.”
“And what about when you get back? Will you throw yourself back into the pizzeria?”
“Honestly…” I looked at Meg. “I’m hoping by that time it won’t need me at all.”
“Let’s face it, Ty, this is no longer your baby. You’ve allowed Meg to start running things her way.”
“What are you saying? That I should sell it all to her?” I asked, only half-joking.
“Not at all.” Professor Hunt shook her head. “You’ve been taking steps to set this up as a source of passive income. That’s smart. It means you can go to London or trek through the Himalayas or do whatever else your heart desires and still have a means to support yourself. But if you’re passing control over to Meg, don’t hamstring her. Her passion is for exceptional pizza. You’ve let her change the recipe and hire her kind of staff. Don’t force her to keep your avatar.”
“So Joanna has to go?”
“I actually liked a lot of Joanna’s ideas,” Meg said.
“You don’t have to dump the things you like,” Professor Hunt said. “But I think it’s time the two of you made a new avatar together.”
“I’m being replaced as mascot!” Joanna blew a strand of red hair away from her eyes so she could glare at me with full venom.
“Relax.” I leaned back against the counter, trying to sound light. “You’re still a valuable part of the team. And you can come in and get free pizza anytime you want. Right, Meg?”
“Uh, right,” Meg said, clearly not expecting this piece of generosity.
“And it’s not like we’re making radical changes,” I added quickly.
Now it was Meg’s turn to glare at me. Something told me radical changes were exactly what she had in mind.
“Avatars are supposed to be fictional anyway,” Meg said, leaving the obvious unstated: a fictional avatar would never grow irate about being replaced.
“So what’s this new avatar going to be?” Joanna asked, hand on hip.
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Meg said, her voice calm but focused.
“Do I at least get to be part of picking my replacement?” Joanna asked, tone softening just a little.
“Uh, sure. I guess,” I stammered, turning away from Meg so I wouldn’t see her reaction. She might be my partner, but I didn’t want her alienating all my friends in the first month.
“So what are you looking for in a new avatar?” Joanna asked, rocking lightly on her heels.
“See that guy over there?” Meg pointed toward the back of the pizzeria.
We all turned to look. A bald man in a navy suit sat alone, eating a personal pie with quiet concentration.
“You’re not seriously going to choose him as avatar over me, are you?”
Meg threw out her hands as if to protect herself from a Joanna onslaught. “No, I told you, I think an avatar should be fictional. But this is the third time I’ve seen that guy in here over the past week.”
“He’s probably a professor,” I said.
“He’s not,” Meg said. “I spoke to him the other day. He’s a financial advisor who works in town. He walks over from his office because he likes the pizza. If you’re here Sunday, you’ll meet his wife and kids. He’s been telling them about the place, and they’re excited to try it out. They live about twenty minutes away, but they’re driving in for dinner.”
“What’s your point?” Joanna asked, shifting her weight.
Meg turned back to us. “People are now talking about the pizza. Pretty soon, we might be more than just a college pizzeria.”
“So are you going to paint over the aquamarine and take down the pictures of the athletes?” Joanna’s voice sharpened again.
“All that can stay.” Meg sounded sincere, even though college sports were not her thing. “We’re not replacing our college customers, just making the place welcoming to non-students as well.”
I exhaled quietly. I was proud of what I’d done with the decor and didn’t want to see it changed. “And it’s not like college students are the only people who attend games,” I added. “I’ve seen plenty of locals at football and basketball games. I think it makes sense to keep the place in the school colors.”
“So what about those ideas people have been leaving in my suggestion box?” Joanna asked, indicating it with her chin. “At least once a week, someone asks for gluten-free pizza, and Ty keeps promising he’ll try adding it to the menu. And lately we’ve gotten a bunch of requests for vegan pizza too.”
Meg looked mortified, but she kept her voice calm. “Now that I’m in charge of the pizza, I don’t see either of those two things happening.”
“Why not? Vegan and gluten-free are both exploding.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad business to offer them,” Meg replied. “But my goal isn’t to make this a place where there’s something for everyone. My goal is to do one thing and do it extremely well. In this case, it’s making and serving the best pizza I possibly can.”
“So then what’s the point of having a suggestion box?” Joanna asked, arms folded.
“There isn’t one,” Meg said. “In my experience, most people don’t know what they want until they get it.”
“So now you’re going to be the expert on what people want?” Joanna asked, giving Meg a look of open disbelief.
“I’ll learn what they want by watching what they do.”
“So will you get rid of my bacon pizza, too?” Joanna’s voice now carried a challenge.
“Are people buying it?” Meg asked.
“Hell yeah, they’re buying it.” Joanna nodded with pride.
“Then it stays. Same with the experimental pizzas we’re making. We’ll keep playing with the blends of cheeses, with the sauce, with crust recipes, with topping options until we learn what combinations people like best.”
Joanna stepped closer, not letting it go. “But if that’s the case, why not try the gluten-free and the vegan pizzas? At least see if people will buy them.”
Meg’s face tightened. “Because I want to use the best ingredients possible. Maybe it’s silly of me to put my personal standards above the dietary choices of my customers. But the truth is, I don’t want a second-rate pizza sitting next to my others.”
“Vegan cheeses have come a long way,” Joanna said.
“And they still have a long way to go to match the best mozzarellas. But if they continue to improve, then maybe I’ll reevaluate.”
Joanna huffed. “It sounds like you want to be your own avatar.”
“No, but I want an avatar who seeks out a superior product. Those are the people I get excited about baking for.”
“Maybe we should have multiple avatars,” I said.
“Why?” Meg asked.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said about locals and families. If there are families that will drive twenty minutes to get a better pizza, those are customers we want. People like that will spread the word and won’t quibble about price. But they also have different needs from our college students, who might stop in between classes. The families are more likely to order pies and have no problem waiting until they’re done. But students often just want to grab a quick slice. They’re too different for one avatar to cover both.”
“So what do we do if the avatar’s desires conflict?” Meg asked.
“I guess the first thing we do is ask if there’s a way to satisfy them both. If we get so full on a weekend with families wanting pies that all the tables are taken, we can sell the students slices from the other counter. And if we can’t satisfy both, we’ll have to weigh them against each other. The students care more about college sports than the locals, who probably don’t care one way or another. So on that issue, the students win, and the school colors remain.”
“If you’re having two, does that mean I get to stay as one of the avatars?” Joanna asked.
I was in favor. “Meg, what do you think?”
Meg sighed. “Sorry, Joanna, but you’re just not passionate enough about your pizza to be my avatar.”
“What do you mean? I love pizza. And I’ve liked the pizza here even more since you took over.”
“True, but you were willing to eat the old pizza without complaint.”
Joanna put a hand back on her hip. “You’re a pizza snob, Meg.”
“Damned right,” Meg said without flinching. “And so are my avatars. I don’t care if we have ten avatars—each one of them must be a pizza snob.”
“I think we should keep the college student avatar a woman,” I said, “for all the reasons I gave before.”
“Because college guys are slobs?”
“Many are. But it’s interesting what you said about the financial advisor. If we’re looking to get more local businesspeople in for their lunch hour, I’d guess more of them are men. And look at the suit this guy’s wearing. If he ever had a slob phase, he’s grown out of it.”
“But what about the families?” Meg asked. “It’s usually the moms who are deciding where they eat.”
“True, and kids have a whole different set of needs,” Joanna said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like when I was a kid, my siblings and I couldn’t sit still until the food came. Most of the places we went to as a family were kid-friendly. They’d bring out crayons and paper placemats with pictures, puzzles, or connect the dots.”
“Meg?”
Meg nodded slowly. “When I was a kid, I’d beg to go to my favorite restaurants. I have no problem adding some kid-friendly elements as long as they don’t conflict with the needs of our other avatars.”
“What are you afraid would conflict?”
“Plenty of pizza places do kids’ birthday parties, but our avatars aren’t looking for Chuck E. Cheese. A family coming in with two kids is one thing. But if they have fifteen eight-year-olds in tow, it’s another.”
I certainly didn’t want the chaos of screaming kids. “OK, I hear that.”
“So you’re replacing me with three avatars?” Joanna asked, exasperated.
“Why not?” I said. “A female college student, sort of a mashup of Joanna’s school spirit and taste in music with Meg’s pizza snobbery. A businessman who’s left his slob years behind but still loves a good pie. And a mom who wants great pizza, a fun environment, and a way to keep her kids entertained at the table. Thoughts?”
“Three seems like a lot,” Meg said, “but I guess there’s no problem with it.”
Joanna rolled her eyes and reached for her backpack. “Have fun with your new fictional friends,” she said and walked out the door.
