Boston Days — Part 15

The Robot Brewed It. But Did It Mean It?

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers what a frappe in downtown Boston and a robotic kiosk at Logan Airport taught me about the one thing no machine has yet learned to deliver — the soul behind a brand.)

A coffee chain that is struggling to get back at its feet. And a coffee making robot. Stark tale of 2 coffee offerings.

At downtown Boston, I paid my retail pilgrimage to the SBUX outlet at Assembly Row. Barista Ms. Anita was empathetic to my ask — any food item without eggs. And no, they don't have any.

She went on to prepare a wonderful frappe for me. Great drink for the soul, some rest for my feet before I continued my retail walk.

Assembly Row in Somerville is one of Boston's most compelling mixed-use destinations — open, walkable, anchored by brands that belong. Starbucks fits in naturally.

Founded in Seattle in 1971, Starbucks today operates over 36,000 stores across 80 countries. 

Yet the chain has endured a turbulent few years — leadership churn, flat same-store sales, and a high-profile CEO transition that brought in Brian Niccol from Chipotle in 2024 to engineer a turnaround. 

The comeback story is still being written.

What Ms. Anita delivered, though, was the Starbucks I recognise — warm, personal, unhurried. She read the customer, filled the gap, made it count.

Cut to Boston Airport on my return leg to India.

At Terminal E of Logan International, tucked past the departure boards and the duty-free frenzy, stood Mt. Comfort Coffee — a beautifully branded, self-contained automated pod, adorned with hand-drawn wilderness illustrations and a glowing LED outline, a robotic arm working silently at its centre.

Order placed on a touchscreen. Coffee delivered by the arm. No human in sight.

I stood and watched. Hardly anyone else stopped to do the same.

A few gates away, George Howell Coffee held its ground — a well-regarded Boston craft brand, known for sourcing discipline and specialty blends, with a proper counter and a considered menu. History, provenance, and craft in one place. Few takers, still.

No Starbucks at Terminal E. Two alternatives — one human-less, one storied — and neither drawing queues.

I found myself sitting with a question I could not answer:

If a robot can brew a technically excellent cup of coffee — does the experience, let alone the beverage, still stay true to the brand promise?

Ms. Anita made a great frappe.

The robot, I am told, makes a great cold brew.

But only one of them asked how my day was going.

Boston was teaching me. Again.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13 and Part 14 here.

Boston Days — Part 14

Own Your Moment. The Sunglass Hut Lesson.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers what a 450 sq ft store in downtown Boston taught me about drawing in a customer who had absolutely no intention of buying — and keeping them anyway.)

Not every customer who walks into a store is there to buy. Some are curious. Some are browsing. Some — like me on that particular Saturday afternoon — are there to observe, with a very specific lens. Pun intended.

I walked into the Sunglass Hut store in downtown Boston wearing every signal of non-buyer: a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses already on my face, a backpack on both shoulders, layered clothing, and that unhurried pace that translates, in every retail language, to not shopping today.

The store was compact — roughly 450 square feet. 

Yet hundreds of premium eyewear frames lined every wall in structured, luminous display. Dark fixtures, precise spacing, dedicated zones for Ray-Ban, Oakley, Armani Exchange, Burberry, Coach and Ralph Lauren — curated, not crowded.

What held me was not the collection. It was the consistency. 

Sunglass Hut looks exactly the same whether you walk in on a highstreet or through an airport terminal — Mumbai to Boston, Bangalore to beyond. The identity never wavers.

Founded in 1971 by Sanford Ziff as a single kiosk at Miami's Dadeland Mall, Sunglass Hut today operates over 3,000 stores across 20 countries. 

It is part of EssilorLuxottica — the French-Italian eyewear conglomerate formed through the 2018 merger of Essilor and Luxottica, led by CEO Francesco Milleri — which also owns Ray-Ban, Oakley, and a portfolio of luxury brand licences. 

Key competitors include Maui Jim, Specsavers, and in India, Lenskart and Vision Express.

The lone associate on the floor read me immediately — typical Indian traveller, backpack, casual stroll, mostly browse, wear, take pictures, move on — and attended to the other customers first. 

When the floor cleared, he walked over. Warm, unhurried, completely genuine. Seven to eight minutes of easy conversation followed. No pitch. No pressure.

When I put back a lens-cleaning liquid after noting its price, he delivered his line with quiet confidence: "Buy it once. Free refills for life at any Sunglass Hut store worldwide.".

Seriously?

I am not certain that offer holds at Sunglass Hut India — though it likely applies where the brand maintains a direct presence. Worth checking the next time you walk in 

But the lesson is not about the liquid.

Specialty retail at its very best draws you in on a different pretext entirely — curiosity, comparison, wandering — and then, with product knowledge and one perfectly timed line, quietly captures your attention, your wallet, and eventually, your loyalty.

Boston was teaching me. Again.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12 and Part 13 here.

Boston Days - Part 13

Cardullo's: One Corner. Seventy-Five Years.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers what a 75-year-old gourmet store at Harvard Square taught me about the one decision no retailer can ever get wrong — and what happens when a business outlasts the family that built it.)

Ownership changes. Legacies don't.

There is a small brass plaque on the pillar outside Number 6, Brattle Street. It reads: Cardullo's. Since 1950. Three owners later, that plaque has not moved an inch.

Frank Natali Cardullo was born in Messina, Italy in 1915. He arrived in Boston in 1929, originally intending to become a doctor. By 1942, he had bought the Wursthaus — a beloved German restaurant at the heart of Harvard Square — earning himself the informal title of "the unofficial Mayor of Cambridge." 

On April 1st, 1950, he opened Cardullo's Gourmet Shoppe at Number 6, Brattle Street, to serve the neighbourhood's fiercely international community. Imported foods, a deli counter, an oyster bar and fine wines became its staples.

In 1978, he originated Harvard Square's Oktoberfest, now an annual tradition.

When Frank Sr.'s health began failing in 1993, his son Francis — a former airplane pilot — stepped away from the skies, bought the shop from his father, and took the counter. He sold the Wursthaus to focus entirely on the gourmet store. 

Frank Sr. passed away in October 1997, four years after handing over the keys — but not before Cambridge's Mayor officially proclaimed him the originator of Oktoberfest. He lived to see his life's work in safe hands.

Francis died in 2009. His daughters Donez and Francesca took the counter next — the third generation of Cardullos at Number 6. They ran it for six years before making a decision that no family business takes lightly. 

In 2015, they sold. "We have children who are still at home," said Donez. "We're switching our efforts from family business to family."

The buyers were Rich and Kim Wilson, a Newton couple walking away from corporate careers. 

"We wanted to leave the corporate world," said Kim, formerly of Staples. 

"And we wanted to continue this legacy in Harvard Square." 

Three years in, they made a decision the Cardullo family never had — they expanded. In August 2018, a second location opened at Boston's Seaport. 

"It felt like the perfect fit," said Kim, "to bring our rich legacy from one of the city's oldest neighbourhoods to one of its newest."

In late 2024, restaurateur Joel Hidenfelter took ownership, partnering with hospitality group Flying Line — and announced a third location at Chestnut Hill for 2026.

Four ownership chapters. Three locations. Seventy-five years. The same corner that started it all.

Every time Cardullo's changed hands, the incoming owner said the same thing in different words — I am here to protect this, not replace it. 

That is not sentiment. That is the power of a location so right, so embedded in the life of a place, that no new owner dares disturb it.

Frank Cardullo settled one question in 1950 — where. Every owner since has simply had to honour it.

Boston was teaching me. Again.

Cardullo’s was among the 150 cases that we studied during my ongoing Senior Leadership Program at Harvard Business School, Boston, MA.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11 and Part 12 here.