Chocolate Wars: The 150-Year Rivalry Between the World's Greatest Chocolate Makers (22 page)

Among the Society of Friends, there were purists who doubted that such an imposing manor, which went well beyond the simple lifestyle embraced by his forebears, could be reconciled with Quakerism. How did such Victorian luxury fit with the plain black coats, the frugality, and puritanical beliefs of the movement’s seventeenth-century founders? The Cadburys did not adhere rigidly to the rules of their Quaker forefathers but nor could they abandon their faith altogether like some wealthy Quaker industrialists. They found a third way through the ever-widening gulf between the demands of their faith and the secular world. They belonged to a growing breed of successful Quakers who maintained their faith but did not turn their back on material prosperity.

For those in the Quaker community who considered the Cadburys too worldly, there was a surprise in store. In 1895 George was poised to use his wealth to pursue his ideal of building a utopia. It was the culmination of a family dream first discussed by his father and Uncle Benjamin nearly fifty years earlier. George’s aim was to turn his garden factory into a garden city.

Worried that his goal might be thwarted if speculators and slum builders got hold of the land surrounding his factory, George had been discreetly using his income to buy parcels of land around the chocolate works. In 1893 he bought fields to the north of the chocolate works and then he purchased the imposing Bournbrook Hall, a 118-acre estate adjoining Bournville to the west. He was now ready to embark on the first stage of his ambitious plan.

Initially he could only afford to build 142 homes around the chocolate factory. But it was a start. He was convinced from his work at the Adult School that if slum dwellers were provided with homes that gave them a sense of dignity, they would thrive and their health would improve. The key to his scheme was land: Each home should have enough land for a family to cultivate a garden and grow food. This, he believed, would improve their quality of life and lead to a better diet. “About a sixth of an acre is as much as a man working in a factory can cultivate in his leisure time,” he reasoned. Consequently, his village was designed with no more than six or seven houses to an acre.

Poring over a map of the fields—Yellow Meadow, Far Hall Meadow, Barn Close, Fox Hill—George began to sketch out his plans. He appointed William Harvey, a young local architect to help him. At the heart of the model village would be a green, graced with trees, winding paths, and rose beds. The homes would be nestled around the village green, each one individually designed to avoid ugly uniformity and set back from wide, tree-lined carriageways. Harvey was strongly influenced by the Arts and Crafts movement, which was inspired by John Ruskin and others to promote craftsmanship in art and architecture. Harvey’s houses had a cozy English cottage feel, with stepped gables, timber porches, and Venetian windows
over canted bays. Their spacious gardens were 140 feet long at the back and were planted with several fruit trees to give a vista of blossoming trees in the spring. More than 10 percent of the land was set aside for open spaces, including parks, lawns, tennis courts, and playgrounds. On hand to help was the Gardeners Department at Bournville, which could provide support to those aspiring owners who had never grown anything before.

The model village served to complement changes at the rapidly expanding factory. In 1895 George and Richard turned land adjacent to the chocolate works into a men’s recreation ground with a lodge. Soon plans were underway to build a cricket pavilion. On the other side of Bournville Lane, twenty-three acres around Bournbrook Hall were turned into women’s grounds. The Martin’s pool, where the brothers and staff had skated in the early years, was turned into a lawn surrounded by shady pathways. A section was laid out for croquet, swings, and other games. Plans were made for a swimming pool and an ornamental pond. George’s grand scheme was meant to demonstrate that rather than using land to benefit private individuals, land reform could benefit the whole community.

Bournville village, however, was not a charity. Houses were available at a price of up to £250. Loans were available at low rates; 2½ percent if borrowing less than half the value of the home, 3 percent for a larger loan. These loans were lower than the average rent and enabled an applicant to own his house outright after twelve years. In this way, the would-be homeowner was not only encouraged to save but could also aspire to a better lifestyle and more secure future for himself and his family.

George Cadbury was not the first to try creating a model city. In 1853, a pioneering industrialist in the Yorkshire wool industry, Titus Salt, had constructed a model village for his millworkers. In 1888, the leading soap manufacturer, William Lever, created Port Sunlight on fifty-six acres of marshy land on the banks of the River Mersey near Liverpool. Both schemes were designed to benefit the workers. George’s plan, however, went further in that he hoped to provide housing for Bournville staff and a broad, social mix of people drawn
from all walks of life. He wanted his model community to become a template to raise living standards of the poor elsewhere in England. Any investor, he believed, could operate such a scheme without losing money, something he hoped to demonstrate by extending his model village using revenue from the estate. As building got underway in 1895, the homes proved so popular that George was soon negotiating for additional land.

But the utopia could not survive without funds. The Cadbury brothers faced growing competition from abroad. The next challenge came from left field, from their old rival, the Dutch firm of Van Houten, which had come up with a technical breakthrough that could threaten the success of their chocolate empire.

At his factory in Weesp, Holland, Coenraad van Houten, who sold George Cadbury his first cocoa press, was sitting on top of another breakthrough that had the potential to radically transform the cocoa business once again.

Van Houten wanted to improve the quality of drinking cocoa. He took a scientific approach to the problem, systematically testing out different ideas. It was known that the Aztecs added wood ash to their preparations to counter the stringent acidity of cacao. Working on the same principle, Van Houten experimented with adding alkalis, such as potassium or sodium carbonate, during processing. The result took him by surprise.

When Van Houten added alkaline salts before roasting the bean, he found the cocoa tasted less bitter. But to his delight, there were other unexpected benefits in the texture and flavor of the drink. Although the alkalized cocoa was not completely soluble in milk or water, it was more miscible than any other cocoa product, blending more evenly in solution and becoming easier to swallow. Better still, the alkali enhanced the rich cocoa taste. The cocoa powder was darker, strongly aromatic, and altogether smoother and more chocolatey. When he released samples of his new drink to the public, they
loved it. He began selling the product in the 1860s and gradually word spread. No one knew the exact secret, but the process earned the nickname “Dutching.”

By the late 1880s, Cadbury’s travellers were troubled by the growing presence of Dutch cocoa
.
Wherever they went, the smiling face of the glamorous model on the packaging of Van Houten’s cocoa greeted them, proclaiming this was “best and goes furthest.” What is more, this seemed to be achieved effortlessly. Grocers stocked Dutch cocoa simply because the public asked for it, and for the Cadbury brothers, this could spell catastrophe. Their winning streak could be in jeopardy. Although sales of their Cocoa Essence were still growing as more people consumed cocoa, there was strong evidence to suggest that their best-selling product was achieving a smaller slice of a burgeoning market. By the early 1890s, their market share was clearly in decline.

Richard and George were caught in a dilemma. They had staked their reputation, even their name, on purity. So how could they possibly start adding chemicals like alkaline salts? It would make nonsense of all their earlier claims.

Worse still, Van Houten’s flyers showed that a distinguished group of British scientists agreed that their cocoa drink was superior to anything else. Professor Attfield of the Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, Dr. Theophilus Redwood, emeritus professor of chemistry and pharmacy, and Dr. John Muter, former president of the Society of Public Analysts, tested Dutch cocoa, and they sang its praises: “The alkaline salt as introduced by the Van Houten preparation, not only does not spoil but very greatly improves the cocoa both in its sensible and nourishing properties.” The eminent panel applauded Van Houten’s ingenuity and scientific approach, adding, “Van Houten’s cocoa merits the term ‘soluble’ more fairly than any other cocoa.”

George Cadbury, true to character, went on the offensive. Convinced that purity stood for quality, he set out to prove that alkaline salts were risky contaminants. The public must be warned that Dutch cocoa was not pure and had added chemicals. Once they knew, surely they would win back consumers. The first step was to use the Cadbury
packaging to communicate their views. An explicit warning appeared beneath the sweetly smiling Cadbury girl assuring the public that while their cocoa is pure, “Among the Cocoas that do not answer to this description are those of foreign make, notably the Dutch, in which alkalis and other injurious colouring matter are introduced.” Richard and George soon found experts of their own willing to fight on their side of the battle, including the ever-obliging medical profession.

The
Birmingham Medical Review
of October 1890 was in no doubt where they stood. “Quite apart from any question as to the
injury
resulting to the human system from taking these [alkaline] salts,” they stormed, “it would only be right that the medical profession should resolutely discountenance the use of any and all secret preparations.” Scientists writing in
Peterson’s
magazine in 1891 went so far as to specify what injury alkalis might cause: “They dissolve animal textures . . . and excite catarrh of the stomach and intestines.” Dr. A. J. H. Crespi went further, arguing that foreign cocoas with alkaline salts were quite simply “dangerous and objectionable.” Even on the continent—though not in Holland—Dutch cocoa was given the thumbs down. One anonymous German expert declared that Dutch alkaline cocoa is “in the highest degree destructive,” damaging “the essential constituents of cocoa.” In short, he fumed, the Dutch method is “perfectly barbarous.” Cadbury’s efforts soon made Dutch cocoa look like something Machiavelli might administer to a sworn enemy.

But nothing could entice the British public away from its favorite new chocolate drink. Sales for the more soluble Dutch cocoa soared, reaching 50 percent of the British market in the 1890s. George and Richard had to accept that purity was less of an issue than in the past, when people had to worry about manufacturers adding red lead and brick dust to their cocoa. Consumers were now confident that their cocoa would not harm them, and they wanted a more enjoyable drink. The Cadburys had nothing to match what the Dutch offered.

And then the travellers arrived with more bad news. It came in the form of Swiss chocolate.

It had not been easy for Daniel Peter. After the initial excitement of discovering his revolutionary milk chocolate drink in 1875, it took almost twenty years to make headway scaling up his chocolate enterprise. His efforts to turn milk chocolate into a bar for eating were equally troubled. A key stumbling block was funding. In the 1870s he paid several visits to England, where he confirmed that there was a hearty appetite for his creamy, milk chocolate drink. It was unique, unlike anything else on the market, and very popular. The English could not get enough of it. But Peter struggled to convince potential backers in Switzerland of his business proposition. His manufacturing process was fraught with pitfalls that steely-eyed Swiss financiers could spot a mile away.

It was hard to create a standardized milk-based product for export in bulk. Milk was a tricky commodity to deal with. Thundery summer weather could turn it sour. Large quantities of milk often went bad before it could be processed. The quality of the milk could vary from farm to farm and season to season. Attempts to manufacture a milk chocolate bar presented other problems. Early efforts were dry and crumbly, and all too often the milk went bad, making the bar rancid. Convinced he had a great product, Peter searched long and hard for a financial backer but without success. Henri Nestlé had retired, but the new directors of Nestlé would not support Peter. Nor did he partner with Anglo Swiss, the firm that produced condensed milk. Peter found himself utterly shut out by Swiss bankers who dismissed his product and its ingredients as too risky.

He soldiered on, and after years of low-budget experiments, he finally mastered a technical process in 1886 that produced a temptingly soft and creamy milk chocolate bar. It was launched as Gala Peter and received immediate acclaim. When demand far exceeded supply, bankers finally began to pay attention. Everything came together for Peter in the early 1890s, when two Swiss businessmen, Albert Cuenod and L. Rapin, and a banker, Gabriel Montet, invested enough for him to create a new company, Société des Chocolats au Lait Peter, and scale up production.