Marketers cater to cravings and remorse

Section: Money, Pg. 01b

There's a dirty-little-secret that only the savviest marketers know. Their most desirable consumers love to indulge -- then repent.

First the chocolate. Then the organic salad bar.

First the banana split. Then the cardio class.

Party into the wee hours -- then wake up and do yoga.

Increasingly, it is the yin and yang consumer pushing the shopping cart. And flicking the plastic.

For smart marketers and retailers -- from Whole Foods to Ben & Jerry's to Crunch Fitness -- the trick is to offer products that appeal to both sides of this contradictory consumer.

Perhaps nowhere is this mild form of consumer split personality more pronounced than among the nation's 79 million baby boomers.

"This was a generation raised on indulgence," says Steven Berglas, a clinical psychologist and executive coach in Los Angeles. "Boomers won't even hear of being deprived until after they've overindulged."

Then, they want it. Even need it.

"We're not a society that drives down the middle of the road," says Denny Marie Post, chief concept officer at Burger King. "We swerve between the two extremes."

Trends forecaster and pop culture guru Faith Popcorn has her own term for this: dueling extremes. It is, she says, a need to "balance binge moments with restorative acts."

Only the savviest retailers have figured out how to successfully bridge these emotional highs and lows in a single sales environment, she says.

Among the most blatant in its dueling appeals: The Venetian Resort Hotel Casino in Las Vegas.

At one extreme: Tao.

That's the pulsating nightclub inside the Venetian that, in less than eight months since its grand opening, has attracted jetsetters Mariah Carey, Janet Jackson, Paris Hilton, Jessica Simpson, Britney Spears and Usher. It must be cool -- it doesn't even open until 10 p.m.

"It's the ultimate extreme in decadence," says Rob Goldstein, president of the Venetian. Inside the nightclub, women covered only with strategically placed flower petals bathe.

Several rounds of drinks in one of eight private sky boxes at the club can fetch $5,000.

At the other extreme: Even as Tao's high-rollers are handed their bills near the club's 5 a.m. closing time, waiters are trained to urge them to "rejuvenate" with a massage or mud bath at the hotel's famous Canyon Ranch SpaClub.

If the clubs and casinos are the yin, this very un-Las Vegas, smoke-free spa resort is clearly the yang.

"In the exciting whirlwind of Las Vegas," promises the spa's promotional brochure, "there is a peaceful oasis waiting for you."

Peace at a price. There's the manicure and pedicure combo for $135. Or the Seventh Heaven milk bath for $300. Or the $270 Rascal Ritual -- where a couple enter a special rainforest-like steam chamber to take turns applying five kinds of mud to each other, later rinsed off by artificial rain.

Dueling extremes don't have to be seen as opposites. Both the Tao nightclub and the Canyon Ranch spa are marketed as "spiritual" experiences.

Guilt-free unwinding

It wasn't exactly spiritual, but Tracy York, general manager of the Lake Austin Spa Resort in Austin, says she'll never forget the overworked real estate agent who checked into that world-class resort.

The woman appeared to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. When York showed her the resort's activity schedule, the woman bust into tears and said that she wanted to do absolutely nothing.

The guest stayed locked in her room for the next three days -- where a minimum three-night spa package starts at $1,630 per person, based on double occupancy. When she stepped out -- well-rested -- three days later, she looked like a different person, recalls York. "We gave her the freedom to shut down and relax."

New York City resident Joan Hastings knows first-hand about dueling extremes.

The Manhattan actress says she'll take an intense weight-training class at the Crunch Fitness gym to which she belongs, then follow it the same day with the Crunch class "How to Nap."

"This is so New York," she says. "You have to be heads-up all the time, then you go to the gym -- to nap."

Behind the nap class is Donna Cyrus, senior vice president of programming at Crunch. The high-end health club chain, with 32 clubs in six states, also offers a popular class in how to walk in high-heels -- and another in cardio strip tease.

"It's not enough to do a great workout," says Cyrus. "I'm always challenged to find new ways to keep intriguing the minds of our members."

Nancy Story, a property manager from Westfield, Ind., says dueling extremes are her life story.

There's the recent visit to the local Dairy Queen, where she ordered a hot fudge sundae topped with lots of whipped cream. She got home, felt guilty, and immediately went to the fitness club that she'd recently joined.

There's a twist. "I get all the way there and -- oops -- forgot my sneakers," she recalls, with a smile. "No workout that day."

100% organic decadence

More often than not, dueling extremes involve food.

Few know that better than Whole Foods Market.

"We've evolved from being the natural and organic store to the one for the foodies," says Walter Robb, co-president and COO of Whole Foods Market.

But even if an item is over-the-top decadent, it's going to at least be made from natural ingredients, he says.

Such as the cotton candy -- yes, "natural" cotton candy -- sold in its new store in Woburn, Mass. Bear in mind, it has no artificial food coloring.

And the sugar it's spun from is, of course, organic.

Robb says it's not entirely uncommon for the same shopper who visits the Austin store's Candy Island -- where a fountain of rich chocolate flows for the enrobing of fresh fruits -- to later that day atone at the organic salad bar or raw juice bar.

"I don't think consumers see it as a contradiction," he says.

"They just feel cleaner and squeakier after visiting the salad bar or juice bar."

Many consumers mentally view life as a balance sheet of debits and credits, he says.

Debit for a decadent doughnut -- made with all natural ingredients -- from Whole Foods' in-store bakery.

Credit for a fruit salad -- perhaps with kiwi, kumquat and mango -- from the fresh fruit bar.

Executives at Ben & Jerry's know that many of their consumers live complex lives littered with dueling extremes.

So do their own families. Walt Freese, who is CEO (a.k.a. chief euphoria officer) at Ben & Jerry's, says his wife often gets on her treadmill and watches Food Network -- planning indulgent meals while working out.

The care and feeding of this emotional yin and yang has become a specialty at Ben & Jerry's.

"We have repentance built right in," says Freese. "You can indulge, but know you're eating ice cream made by a company that's supporting Vermont family farms and that's dedicated to giving back to the community."

And even its most calorie-laden ice cream is free of artificial additives and growth hormones.

Redemption by sorbet

Then, there are the Chunk Spelunkers.

These are Ben & Jerry's core customers, with whom executives like to meet from time to time. On a recent trip to Chicago, Freese met with one Chunk Spelunker who said she thinks nothing of downing a double-dip cone of his new Turtle Soup ice cream loaded with fudge, caramel and cashews.

Then, she "redeems" herself next time she has the urge by ordering a single scoop -- in a cup -- of Ben & Jerry's new Jamaican Me Crazy sorbet.

"After she feels absolved, she goes back to the ice cream," says Freese.

Panera Bread knows all about this kind of customer. It's the one who might order a very light soup and salad for lunch, then breeze back in at 3:30 for a cappuccino and chocolate chip cookie.

"The same customer has multiple ways to use our menu," says Scott Davis, chief concept officer.

Few, however, understand dueling extremes better than Andy Puzder.

He's the CEO of CKE Restaurants, which runs the Hardee's and Carl's Jr. fast-food chains. His life's mission seems to be to push the envelope in both directions.

Carl's was mostly ahead of the pack in 2003 when it began to sell the Low Carb Thickburger -- a bunless burger wrapped in leaf lettuce -- to carb counters.

At the other extreme, Carl's also is home to the much-maligned, calorie-laden Monster Thickburger.

New at Hardee's and still being tested at Carl's: a 930-calorie burger whose main condiment is meat.

That's right, meat on meat.

The Philly Cheese Steak Thickburger is not just a cheese steak. At $3.99, it's a fat 1/3-pound Angus burger patty piled high with carnivore-pleasing sliced steak.

The day after recently devouring a Philly Cheese Steak Thickburger, Puzder says he "repented" by taking a seven-mile jog. "That's why I jog," he says. "So I can eat Thickburgers."

(c) USA TODAY, 2006