I wonder aloud who received the very first Royal Warrant, half-expecting the system to date back to the industrial revolution, when mass production and therefore the need for branding was born.
‘Warrants have existed since at least the 12th century,’ says Peck. ‘The first recorded relationship between royalty and business was the granting by Henry II of the British Royal Charter to the Weavers’ Company in 1155. There are also official records from the 18th century. But it was under Queen Victoria’s reign that the royal tradesmen got together to form the Royal Tradesmen’s Association, which was the start of the organization that is still in place today.’
It turned out that my original presumption was half right, because Victoria dished out warrants like toffees. At the start of her reign, there were some 200 Royal Warrant Holders. By the time she died, there were around 2,000. (It’s worth noting that, when a member of the Royal Family dies, the warrant they have granted remains in effect for a further five years.) At that time, the Lord Chamberlain’s office was responsible for litigating against the fraudulent use of the royal coat of arms, but in 1907 this power passed to the association.
The benefits of holding a Royal Warrant are obvious. On the one hand, as Peck puts it, the warrant is ‘a recognition of a satisfactory trading arrangement and a mark of personal approval from a member of the Royal Family’. On the other, he continues, ‘it is something far more than that: it is a statement about the company and the level of quality and service it provides, which obviously appeals to a wider clientele. These companies stand at the highest echelon of British trade and industry’. There is occasional speculation, he adds, that ‘normal customers’ are unlikely to enjoy the level of service enjoyed by, say, the Queen. ‘But I can assure you that is not the case.’
As many Brits are fairly cynical – or at the very least blasé – about the Royal Family, a Royal Warrant often has more impact abroad. ‘It is held in huge esteem in Asia and the United States. It may be something of a cliché, but these are the companies that make Britain great.’
Ian Eastwood, managing director of luxury leather goods maker Swaine Adeney Brigg, wholeheartedly concurs. ‘We have a large proportion of international customers, from Japanese to American, from Italian to Russian, and they all see our Royal Warrant as providing a stamp of authentic British quality. Our customers buy in to the fact that we have a 250-year history and they appreciate that we provide something very different from the high street.’ He adds that possession of the warrant is also highly motivating to those in the firm’s Cambridge workshops who handcraft its products. ‘The knowledge and care that goes into the creation of our pieces and the individual service that each customer receives all support our status as a Royal Warrant Holder.’
To a certain extent, it seems strange that consumers should be reassured – impressed, even – by the fact that a member of the royal family uses a product. Is being ‘a royal’ necessarily a guarantee of superior taste, or even of exigency? In fact, the Royal Warrant is one of those ‘immaterial elements’ – a mixture of storytelling, mythology and heritage – that swirl around premium brands. David Atkinson is general manager of spreads at Premier Foods, the owner of Frank Cooper. He says, ‘Founded in 1874, Frank Cooper has always stood for quality and tradition. The Royal Warrant reinforces this for consumers… The Royal Warrant remains as a prominent feature of the design, because for Frank Cooper’s core consumers – typically older men – it is a very positive reinforcement of the brand equity.’
ROYAL WARRANTS WORLDWIDE
The United Kingdom is not the only country in which tradesmen are allowed to publicize their relationships with the court. Sweden has one of the most elaborate systems, as well as one of the most engaging websites (www.hovlev.se). Swedish royal warrants date back to the 17th century, when the title ‘merchant to the king’ was used. Early recipients of the royal blessing included cabinet- and casket-maker Georg Haupt, watchmaker Johan Fredman and pastry cook Hans Georg Düben, who had a shop in Stockholm’s Old Town. This mixture of artisanal activities suggests, once again, that ‘luxury’ is more a question of quality than of price: those who could not afford one of Fredman’s watches might, one imagines, have occasionally treated themselves to a cake baked by the royal pastry chef.
Royal warrants almost disappeared in Sweden in 1973, when Carl XVI Gustaf came to the throne and considered throwing them out in a burst of modernizing zeal. Instead, he tightened up the system, so that today only 130 companies hold the title of Purveyor to HM King Carl XVI Gustaf. They include shoemaker Lundhag and bicycle manufacturer Albert Samuelsson & Co, as well as eyewear company Polaris Optic and Victoria Scandinavian Soap. Denmark also has a royal warrant system – brewer Carlsberg and clothing company Ecco are among the grantees – as does Holland.
None of these markets are as intriguing as Japan, however. Japanese consumers are extremely partial to British products that bear the royal seal of approval. But the country also had its own system – Purveyors to the Japanese Imperial Household Agency – until just after the Second World War, when it was abandoned. Curiously, though, the title still exists and is held in great esteem. Purveyors to the imperial family are known as goyotashi and have enjoyed a privileged position since medieval times. Even products that are ‘unofficially’ linked to the royal family have a huge marketing advantage.
‘Critics see the phenomenon as a textbook example of the blind faith Japanese place in brand-name products,’ states an article on the website of the country’s leading newspaper Asahi Shimbun (‘Royal allure’, 1 June 2006, Asahi.com). As an example, it offers the German stuffed toy manufacturer Stieff, which gained a crucial foothold in the country after a member of the imperial family literally embraced one of its products. ‘Steiff’s high-priced products had underperformed for years. All that changed in 1994 when TV viewers glimpsed Steiff’s trademark yellow tag on a teddy bear owned by Princess Mako, the eldest daughter of Prince Fumihito, younger brother of Crown Prince Naruhito. TV broadcasters were inundated with calls from parents and grandparents about the unfamiliar toy. In the twinkling of an eye, shoppers descended on Steiff’s flagship store in Tokyo’s Ginza district, snatching up the bear, known as Molly.’
Now known as ‘Princess Molly’, the bear remains a popular toy, according to the article. Parents also showed great interest in products and services favoured by Princess Aiko, the daughter of Crown Princess Masako. Books, slippers and even callisthenics classes benefited from the association. ‘These classes became de rigueur for many moms after the toddler princess was seen dancing in video footage aired by news-variety shows,’ says Asahi Shimbun.
Predictably, the lack of an official system causes problems. An association representing kimono makers in the Nishijin district of Kyoto was forced to take action following confusion over which manufacturers were genuine suppliers of kimonos to the imperial family. In 2004 the Nishijin Textile Industrial Association decreed that its members could no longer use the word goyotashi in advertising.
Some European brands insist on royal or imperial connections that date back to a distant past. One only has to think of Courvoisier: ‘the cognac of Napoleon’. The legend recounted by the brand is that Napoleon visited the warehouses of wine and spirits merchant Emmanuel Courvoisier and his associate Louis Gallois in the Paris suburb of Bercy in 1811. So impressed was Napoleon by the quality of the merchandise that he took several barrels of cognac with him to St Helena. This version is somewhat slapdash with the facts. Napoleon may well have taken a few barrels of cognac to ease the pain of exile, but the brand name Courvoisier was not officially established until 1835 by Emmanuel’s son, Felix. It was based in Jarnac, not far from the town of Cognac itself. Less debateable is the fact that Napoleon III granted Courvoisier the title ‘Official Supplier to the Imperial Court’ in 1869 – a certificate to this effect is on display in the brand’s museum in Jarnac.
Fragrance house Guerlain is another French company that emphasizes its ancient imperial
connections. Pierre-François Pascal Guerlain opened his perfume shop at 42 Rue de Rivoli in 1828. ‘Inspired by the beauty and elegance of Empress Eugenie, [he] created Eau de Cologne Imperiale in her honour. Seduced by this refined eau, the Empress conferred on Guerlain the title of Her Majesty’s Official Perfumer, the very pinnacle of imperial ranking’ (www.guerlain.com). Time, it seems, cannot dim a royal connection.
FABERGÉ: JEWELLER TO THE TSARS
Arguably the most fascinating historical relationship between craftsman and court was that of Fabergé with the Russian imperial family. The jeweller’s legendary eggs would have been fabulous enough in any circumstances, but their connection with the fallen dynasty of the tsars gives them an additional touch of the Romanesque.
The Fabergé name has a new relevance today because – after more than a century in the doldrums – it is being resurrected as a 21st-century luxury brand. The journey back to its roots has been a labyrinthine one.
Peter Carl Fabergé was born Carl Gustavovich Fabergé in Saint Petersburg on 30 May 1846. As his surname suggests, his family had French origins – they were Huguenots who had fled France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, which effectively made their Protestant faith illegal. Carl joined his father’s jewellery business in 1864 and took over the management of the firm eight years later.
The Easter of 1885 was a turning point for Fabergé. Easter is the most important celebration in the Russian Orthodox calendar. Families had exchanged colourfully decorated folk art Easter eggs for centuries – but Tsar Alexander III wanted a special gift for his wife, the Tsarina Maria Fedorovna, to mark their 20th wedding anniversary. Knowing that Maria was an admirer of Fabergé’s, he commissioned the craftsman to create an exceptional egg. Fabergé delivered it to the palace on Easter morning. At first it appeared to be a simple enamelled egg. Inside, however, there was a golden yoke. In Russian doll style, the yoke yielded a golden hen. And nestling within that was a miniature of the imperial crown, encrusted with diamonds, and an egg-shaped ruby. It’s easy to imagine the Tsarina’s squeals of delight as she uncovered each layer.
The egg started a tradition. Each year, Fabergé was commissioned to produce another, with the sole criterion that it had to be entirely different from those that had gone before. In recognition of the relationship, Fabergé was named Official Court Supplier. When Nicholas II ascended to the throne after Alexander’s death, he continued the tradition, presenting Fabergé eggs to his wife and his mother. The Imperial eggs were exhibited for the first time at the 1900 World Exhibition in Paris. This helped to transform the House of Fabergé into an international brand. The orders poured in for fine jewellery, silverware and tableware. At its height, Fabergé was the largest company in Russia, with more than 500 artisans and branches in Saint Petersburg, Moscow, Odessa, Kiev and London. It produced some 150,000 objects between 1882 and 1917.
During the chaos of the revolution, Fabergé abandoned his company and fled with his family on the last diplomatic train to Riga – and then to Berlin, Frankfurt, Hamburg and Lausanne. He died in 1920 and was buried in Cannes, France.
The fortunes of the Fabergé brand waned considerably after that. Fabergé’s sons Eugene and Alexander set up shop in Paris, where they ran a small workshop called Fabergé & Company, dedicated to restoring original Fabergé objects and making a limited number of new items. Details of what happened next are cloudy, but most accounts suggest that the pair attempted to take legal action against a businessman who had begun marketing cosmetics and perfumes under the Fabergé name.
Samuel Rubin (1901–1978) had been a trader in soap and olive oil from Spain until the Civil War forced him out of business in 1937, when he set up a new concern making cosmetics and toiletries. One of Rubin’s acquaintances was the oil tycoon Armand Hammer, a collector of Fabergé eggs. It was Hammer who suggested that Rubin name his fragrance house after the jeweller to the Tsars, perhaps assuming that the brand had died with the Romanovs. Unable to pursue their litigation against the wealthier Rubin, the Fabergé heirs eventually ceded the brand name to him for US $25,000. Rubin himself later sold his business to another company, Rayette, for US $26 million. He used the money to set up The Samuel Rubin Foundation in New York, dedicated to fighting ‘the immorality and inequity of the disparity between rich and poor’ (Transnational Institute biography of Samuel Rubin, www.tni.org). Now renamed Fabergé Inc, the company sold products like the aftershaves Brut (‘Splash it all over’) and Denim (‘For the man who doesn’t have to try too hard’) and the perfumes Babe and Cavale. Another company, McGregor, briefly owned the Fabergé brand before Unilever acquired it for US $1.5 billion in 1989.
Having plummeted from the heights of intoxicating luxury to the depths of the mass market, Fabergé was ready to be rescued. The lifeline arrived in 2007, when Pallinghurst Resources, a London-based mining investment group, unexpectedly announced that it had purchased the Fabergé brand name from Unilever. Not only that, but it planned to spend as much as US $450 million developing a gemstone and luxury goods business under the Fabergé name. ‘Pallinghurst is all about identifying unrecognized, unloved or overlooked assets and developing them with a strong vision,’ said Sean Gilbertson, a partner at Pallinghurst. ‘The Fabergé acquisition is a good example of a downtrodden brand whose value was not being realized within the Unilever stable’ (‘Fabergé to be revived by Pallinghurst-led investment group’, Bloomberg.com, 24 October 2007).
The new owners would even seek advice from Tatiana Fabergé, Carl Fabergé’s 77-year-old great-granddaughter. ‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for decades,’ she said. ‘It’s been my life’s ambition to restore the unsurpassed standards of design and workmanship that characterized my great-grandfather’s treasures.’
At the time of writing, Pallinghurst was poised to unveil its new collection of Fabergé jewellery.
But what of the original jewel-encrusted eggs made by the Official Court Supplier to the Tsars? There were 50 of these legendary items in all. Nine were acquired in 2004 by a Russian energy tycoon from the family of the late publisher Malcolm Forbes. Ten are housed in the Kremlin. Five are at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Queen Elizabeth owns three (and perhaps even gazes upon them while eating her toast with Frank Cooper’s marmalade). Most of the others are divided among collectors around the world. And eight have vanished entirely.
14
In champagne country
* * *
‘If the name Champagne means anything today, it’s because we have gone to great lengths to ensure that it is respected.’
The train glides through the Marne Valley on a fine autumn morning. Gazing out of the window, I can see a light ground mist drifting over fields of rich, dark, tilled earth. A silhouette of hills languishes below a pale strip of sky. In the distance there is the squat grey tower of a village church. Slowly, the fields fall away and the hills draw nearer. And here at last are the serried ranks of deep green vines, marching up the hillsides like advancing armies. Cheerful red and yellow markers delineate each grower’s territory.
It is late September – harvest time – and more than 100,000 temporary workers have descended on the Champagne region to pick grapes. At Epernay station there is an energetic, festive air. Passengers are met with a trestle table of croissants and plastic cups of champagne. I’ve barely had time to sample this impromptu breakfast when I’m greeted warmly by Daniel Lorson, communications director of the CIVC – the Comité Interprofessionnel du Vin de Champagne. Among other things, Daniel is responsible for looking after the image of the champagne brand worldwide. After a short car ride to the CIVC’s imposing redbrick headquarters – proudly bearing the legend La Maison de la Champagne above its portico – we settle down to talk about the sparkling wine that has become synonymous with luxury.
The first thing Lorson tells me is that few of the champagne houses own vineyards – they are mostly marketers. He explains: ‘As in every other wine-growing region, there are two different groups. The first are the
vignerons, the growers, of which there are about 15,000. In Champagne they own 90 per cent of the vineyards. The second group, the merchants, are known here as ‘houses’ and control two-thirds of sales. The houses construct and nourish the image of champagne. Consumers in Asia and the United States will talk to you about Moët, Clicquot and so on, but they may not be aware that behind these great names are the largely anonymous people who cultivate the vines.’
Although sparkling wine is produced in other parts of the world, there’s no doubt that the Champagne region is unique. Vines rarely flourish beyond the latitudes of 50° north and 30° south. The dual capitals of the Champagne region lie at the northernmost edge of vine-growing territory, with Reims at 49° north and Epernay at 49.5° north. The average annual temperature is 10°C (50°F). This is said to give the wines of Champagne their fresh crispness. Other advantageous factors are the area’s limestone and chalk subsoil – which provides good drainage – and gently rolling hillsides exposed to the sunlight.
The original vignerons of Champagne did not make champagne at all. The Romans were probably the first to cultivate vines in the region, but the slow evolution that led to the effervescent money-spinner we know today began in the Middle Ages. At that point the Bishop of Reims and the area’s great abbeys owned most of the vineyards. They produced crisp whites and the pale reds later known as clairets (a term misappropriated by the British in the form of ‘claret’). By the 17th century, the monks had become skilled at blending grape varieties in order to create more balanced flavours – a practice that would one day be adopted by the champagne houses.
Like many great inventions, the discovery that was to make the region’s fortune came about by accident. Due to the northerly location of the vineyards, the grapes were harvested late in the season. When the musts (freshly pressed juices) were stored in barrels, they began to ferment. This process was halted by the winter chill and recommenced with gusto in the spring. Originally, most of the resulting gas filtered out of the barrels – but by the 17th century the Champenois had seen the potential in this phenomenon and began to harness it in a rather acidic sparkling wine called Tocane. The drawback was that the bottles were not thick enough to resist the internal pressure and often exploded in a shower of foam and glass before they made it out of the cellar.
Luxury World: The Past, Present and Future of Luxury Brands Page 18
