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Soon, larger grocery chains began to take notice. Albertsons introduced Method in its Phoenix-area stores, and Safeway followed. And in April of 2002, Ryan and Lowry found themselves waltzing into a meeting with the discount giant Target, arranged with the help of a San Francisco advertising firm.
"Our presentations literally went from trying to find a frantic manager in the back of the store to Target, where we went in with 10 people and put on a three-hour show," Ryan says.
For their presentation to Target, Ryan and Lowry unveiled a new twist on the cleaning genre. A few months earlier, on little more than a whim, they had sent an e-mail to world-famous designer, artist, and author Karim Rashid, whose clients include Prada, Armani, Sony, Tommy Hilfiger, and Estée Lauder. They had asked him, very simply, if he would be interested in redesigning a fixture of every kitchen in the developed world: Could he make liquid dishwashing soap chic? "Karim was on top of our list for a number of reasons," Ryan says. "He really helped start the movement toward democratic design – he was willing to design for the masses, but came from a high approach. He obviously got it right away."
Perhaps not sensing quite how small this operation was, Rashid enthusiastically agreed and eventually came up with 12 different design concepts for the dishwashing soap. Ryan instructed him to create something that would live on the counter; with the advent of the dishwasher, he reasoned, dishwashing soap is used in short bursts and picked up frequently. He was also inspired by the upright stapler, an object that can be raised and perform its function without needing to be turned over.
And so Method presented to Target its "bowling pin" dish soap – a curved, sculptural bottle that squeezes soap out of its base. It was one of the more radical concepts offered by Rashid – who has since become the company's de facto design director – and he backed it up by arriving at the Target meetings dressed "like a rock star," Ryan says, in a sparkling all-white suit and big funky glasses. Even the normally staid Target executives and buyers were moved by Method's bold ideas, and they scheduled a six-month test run in Chicago and the Bay Area. During the test phase, Method's founders were delighted to receive data that showed they were selling well not only in Target's affluent "A" stores, but also in its low-income or sparsely frequented "D" stores. To Ryan and Lowry, this proved their proposition that people from most income levels would pay a few extra cents for a cleaning product straddling the line between mass and premium, as long as it resonated with them on an emotional level.
"There's a time when a business goes from being a few guys in a room to really becoming something that operates like a business," Lowry says. "And when we went national with Target after the test run, that's really when we shifted gears and began to define the way we did things."
It has been easier, since Method's partnership with Target, to find investors willing to back a start-up soap company headed by a pair of young guys. The company is now primarily funded from three sources: an affiliate of the Simon Property Group, an Indianapolis-based real estate investment trust that is the largest owner and operator of retail real estate in the United States; Tim Koogle, former CEO and chairman of Yahoo! Inc.; and the Sumitomo Corporation of America, an international trading and investment company. Method is developing a sales track record that also speaks to an ever-surer foothold in the industry. According to Information Resources Inc., which tracks data for supermarket sales nationwide, Method rings up about $10 million in annual sales. (Just for comparison, Procter & Gamble did something north of $43 billion in annual sales in 2002.)
But Ryan and Lowry want to see the company expand further, believing the only way to succeed is to beat their large competitors to the punch. They have plans to roll out new household products in the next year, and although they won't name specific categories they're targeting, they say the brand will begin to develop more of its own identity.
"A lot of people who start a company are control freaks ... I think it's cool to see other people take ownership of your ideas," Ryan says. "I mean, this company started with a simple folder – I still have it, actually – and it'll be amazing to see where we are in a year."
Then the pragmatist in him returns, drawing on his extensive knowledge of consumer and corporate trends. "Most people fail a couple of times before they're successful in start-ups," he says, shifting a tad uncomfortably in his chair. He lets out a hoarse chuckle. "If you had asked me to place money on whether we'd be here or not, I would have bet against it."
Lowry frowns. "Well, that's nice to know."
Method's office occupies the second floor of a converted Victorian house, beyond a sign on the door that simply says, "Method, since 2001." The interior is cramped and intimate, redolent of the households Method seeks to serve. Former bedrooms have been turned into offices, which are shared among three or four employees, and the bathrooms are even stocked with reading material – shelves upon shelves of old-fashioned magazines, waiting to be plumbed for design ideas. But Method has outgrown the space, and an upcoming move will be the company's fourth office relocation in 18 months. Despite the success, Method still somehow feels like a grass-roots operation.
After a sales meeting breaks up on a recent Tuesday morning, the company's CEO, Alastair Dorward, emerges from the boardroom cradling a conference-call telephone, its wires spilling out of his arms. Lowry, who has been waiting for Dorward to come out so he can run his own meeting, stops the CEO with a hand on his elbow. "I need the conference phone," Lowry says.
