A profile of Steve Muno, Zingerman's original Art Director
In 1984 23-year old freshly minted Spartan S. Muno, his BFA in hand, the siren call of New York in his head faced down McFate. Would he go to The Only Town and work as a Photographer's apprentice or might he instead follow his heart down the road to Ann Arbor — win back his ex girlfriend (cue 'Monique's Theme') who had gone off to U of M, find unexpected inspiration and professional fulfillment in what was supposed to be a short term rent gig and, while there, become an architect of the famed 'look and feel' of what would become an internationally renowned food business and, oh yes, create the font that bears his name (Muno Bold) and still sings — boldly and graphically — from its every flyer, sign and ad? And all because he couldn't draw a goat. Who wants to be a Zingdog Zillionaire? I think you know where this is heading but let's pretend suspense.
S. got a job. A short term expedient job at a new-ish Deli he'd heard good word about — Zingerman's. The Deli, barely two years old, was still a raw, garage band of a business — with 4 tables, a window counter and old coolers that turned Health inspections into Hitchcock thrillers (those quarter century old coolers did work just fine as sign hanging platforms until their greasy squawk departed the Deli with the first addition). But the mojo and inspiration that would make it a lauded and loved institution was already in gear. They were selling olive oil, prosciutto, cheeses no one had ever heard of much less tasted. Ari was 28, looked like the singer from Depeche Mode and his passion for food pioneering was finding its feet. The lines were out the door. Into this scenario, welcome S., who joined the retail staff.
The days had an organic, mandated rhythm. The lunch rush would start at 11, rip and roar for two or three hours with all-hands-on-deck, then a comparative lull, then the dinner rush. In the downtime S put his creative talents to necessary use making signs on index cards (or butcher paper, or cardboard using any mark-making instrument — crayons, grease pencils, sharpies, marks-a-lot, chunk of coal... ) for the ceaseless wave of new and changing products. The signs mimicked the energy banging all around him. They were fresh, Bold and flavorful. They were fun. They were young. Like the foods the Deli sold, they — and the look and feel of the Deli — developed incrementally and began to demonstrate an extraordinarily unique artistic terroir.
Lori Saginaw (Mrs. Zingerman to you) was doing the newsletter herself. S started to help her out. She was right handed. He was left handed. If the birth of the 'look and feel' could be marked with a plaque it would have to be somewhere in that space in the air between them. They would sit side-by-side and work on the layout together ('Layout' at this time still being a literal term involving a lot of rubber cement). Lori designed the original deli logo. S punched it up a little, added the 'delicatessen' beneath, the sort of fuzzy margin hopping of real collaboration that generates the great stuff. He started making more elaborate and ambitious signs at home as well.
Before we get to the girl... was there a moment when all this coalesced into a super-moment of Total Arrival? Was there a recognition when the invented turned to the inventor and said — 'Here I am — this Whole Thing'. When did consciousness and expediency converge into Art and you knew... you know, what you were doing... really? S?
S (Steve) sez: "I was making a poster for a Michigan goat's milk cheese... I had never heard of such a thing. It was local, organic, artisinal, really cool stuff. I tried to draw a goat but it ended up looking like Pokey of Gumby fame. I started using this kind of childish handwriting and this was the first time I used 'Muno Bold'. The feeling of that poster was, somehow, just right. It caught the attitude. It was Old World but it was fresh. It felt good. It felt right."
"People don't really read words... they recognize shapes... it evolved into only being lower case letter forms not just because it was fun but it had the flavor of the place, the idea you were trying to describe... something about it felt quick and easy, kind of Pop... comfortable... but it made the product accessible... a kind of accessible luxury."
It was, like the third bowl of porridge, Just Right. Then, the deluge.
 The guy with the markers and the index cards became the guy who headed an art department with 4 full time employees. The Deli began to get notice for its pioneering merchandising alongside its revolutionary approach to the food biz. A year after the Gumby Goat the Deli did its first menu and the 'look and feel' hit its stride.
"I really prided myself on how the art mimicked the energy of the Deli. When we did the menu I thought 'Where did all this come from'? But it came from what we did every day. It was naturally created and naturally carried forth."
It also began to accumulate awards along with the notice and provided a platform for collaborations with purveyors and international trade commissions — heady stuff for a corner store in a crooked building in a tiny college town.
And as this column always asks — Steve, what it was like in the early days?
"I remember waiting outside with Frank (Carollo — Bakehouse partner and sire of #26 Frank and Kathy's Half Italian Sub' on the Deli menu) at 6 AM, waiting to get let in. MJ (#42 — MJ's Fond Farewell) and Ed Nemitz (Eddie's Big Deal) were a couple of the early managers — She went one way and Ed went the other in just about everything but they made it work. I always remember the smell of Lox and Pickles early in the morning. The divisions between the different parts of the business were looser back then. Even when I was working 80-90 % in marketing I still hit the floor for lunch. We'd all back each other up, do the rush, mop up and get ready to do it again."
"During Christmas time it was all hands on deck. I was King Phone Guy. I prided myself on knowing all parts of the business so I'd get on the phone that used to be on the corner of the retail and salad cases, 4 lines and that's all I did. I'd take pickup order after pickup order and send them off to the Sandwich line, Retail or Catering and maybe fill what I could of the Retail orders myself between calls."
"I'm a big hockey fan (D — This is true — Steve had to miss our first interview date and its many guaranteed free drinks due to the irresistible appearance of Red Wings tickets). One year at Christmastime the Wings played the Chicago Black Hawks — which was a big rivalry back then. I put the game on, TV on with the sound off so I can listen to Hall-of-Fame announcer Bruce Martin, who was their radio play-by-play guy back then. It's the chippiest, most penalized, most horrible game I've ever seen in my life. It just goes on and on. I've got to work at 5:30 in the morning but I can't stop watching. Bruce Martin is screaming." "This is the most amazing game I've ever seen in 25 years. I've got 5 pages of notes on penalties. I've never, NEVER in my life gone to a fifth page! It's a travesty!"
"I finish watching the game and go to sleep. And I dream that I'm at the Deli and at my phone station and all 4 lines are ringing non-stop. Each call is either Bruce Martin or Paul Woods, the other Wings announcer, calling penalties into me on the phone. I'm writing each one up on a green deli pad up like pick up orders. Then I have to figure out what to do with them. Do I give them to Catering? Do I give them to Retail? The calls keep coming endlessly. They pile up. There is nothing I can do to fill these orders. It's a Deli nightmare!"
What about the Girl?
The Girl was Monique Wallag. Steve's re-courtship went so well she came to work at the Deli too... a 'Sandwich Engineer' of the Golden Years. She and Helene would anchor the Line and Steve got to experience the enviable matrimonial preview of having her make his lunch every day (cue 'Monique's Theme; Reprise'). Today they have 4 lovely children — Sola (Retired Breakfast menu — Sola's Miles of Smiles), Maks, Léonie and Felix... all of whom, at some point, this reporter expects to get to hire to work at the Deli. All part of our Zing Generational recycling program.
There are whole rooms in the mansion of Muno legacy we haven't entered. His creation of Zing-conic character 'Bread Astaire' (the sandwicha dentata of commercial logos). His duplication of Bill Burgart's classic First-Zing-T-shirt-ever design on the first Zingerman's delivery truck (teaching himself how to paint neon on van in Paulie Sag's garage when Sags still had hair), his fervor for cycling that made him one of the founders of a passionate bike culture that lives on at the Zing (our Chef de Cuisine — Rodger Bowser (#5 Rodger's Big Picnic) is a frequent competitor in local races)... Steve painted some of the earliest A2 Bike To Work Week banners and swiftly spent his first Deli bonus (probably THE first Deli bonus) on the bike of his dreams. I could go on and I should go on but, for the rest of the story, wait for the book kids.
The effect of entering the Deli on a busy day falls somewhere between genial mosh pit and giddy pillow fight with the sensory overload of a long Peter Greenaway tracking shot thrown in as well. It is impossible to overstate how the way the deli looks is a direct expression of what the Deli is. Steve-o, thanks for your inspiration, your 11 years of stellar service, for hiring IAN and your continued support of the Zing. Those index cards and old posters were really seeds and look at the garden we've grown.
(Your correspondent is Zingerman's Deli Manager, D$)
back to top
|
