THE FIRST THING you notice is the smell. It’s clean, like detergent, but with a hint of sweetness. Then come the colours: headache orange, throw-up green and a hideous offspring of pink and purple. Imagine a bad LSD trip at Legoland �� but freakier. Look up, and there’s a banner which reads: “Get your Recommended Daily Serving of Delicious!” Straight ahead is a lean and tattooed man pouring jugs of slop into bucket-sized plastic containers.“What kind of boost can I getcha?” he will ask you.
Choose carefully, because this is no ordinary health food joint. This is California’s latest export to an unsuspecting world, and it might just be the death of the Starbucks latte.
Yes, brace yourself: Jamba Juice is coming. Jamba has already become to Los Angeles what Pret A Manger is to London. But unlike Pret, or any other quick-service chain, Jamba offers its customers something special: the promise of a longer, better life. Its drinks have names such as Coldbuster and Protein Berry Pizzazz and come with shots of vitamins, such as the Femme Boost or Fiber Boost.
All of which makes its pricing — $5 for a “power-sized” beverage — seem reasonable. Who wouldn’t trade five bucks for five extra years? The allure is such that Jamba is already a nationwide phenomenon in America, with 533 locations in 26 states, and a new outlet seeming to open every other week. The University of California, Los Angeles, has opened a huge Jamba on its campus; and all across the country, parents are lobbying for vending machines to be replaced by Jamba stands. Jamba was even the inspiration for a sub-plot in the latest series of The Sopranos.
In a way, it’s nothing new: California has been seducing the rest of America with fresh fruit and health advice since the turn of the last century. In the 1930s, oranges were a common metaphor for the fake promise of the Golden State: H. L. Mencken complained about the stink of the fruit of the street; John Fante had one of his characters keep rotten oranges under his bed; and Nathanael West’s mob ate oranges before their riot in The Day of the Locust.
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But what could be wrong with some mashed-up fruit and vegetables? The answer is nothing — so long as you ask Kirk Perron, the goateed cycling and health food enthusiast from San Luis Obispo, who founded the “California Juice Club” in 1990. The Juice Club became Jamba Juice in 1995, with the name Jamba allegedly coming from the African word Jama, meaning “to celebrate”.
Alas, no one has been able to find the exact African dialect from which this translation is derived. Wikipedia points out that in Swahili, Jamba is actually the correct word for “fart”.
Which is fitting, because as far as I’m concerned, Jamba is all hot air. Its drinks may be nutritious (and delicious, even), but they are not necessarily healthy. Indeed, for a terminally fat country, Jamba’s promise to “provide everything you need to live an active, healthy and happy life!” borders on a dangerous con.
Take Jamba’s Peanut Butter Moo’d, a combination of non-fat frozen yogurt, chocolate, soymilk, ice, frozen bananas and all-natural peanut butter. In its power size, the drink contains 1,170 calories, more than twice the number in a burger and small fries from McDonald’s, which is an entire meal.
Naturally, Jamba has a line of low-calorie drinks. But in case you think the Peanut Butter Moo’d is a one-off, check out the Peenya Kowlada, which has 960 calories; or the Mango-A-Go-Go, which has 660 calories.
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It should come as no surprise to learn that the man who runs Jamba is Paul Clayton, the former president of Burger King North America. He has just sold Jamba for $265 million to Steven Berrard, who used to run Blockbuster. Soon, Jamba will no doubt be worth billions, and span the globe, Starbucks-style.
But Clayton’s conversion from burgers to fruit drinks is nothing to thank him for. Sure, a Whopper meal is full of fat. But at least it’s honest: a piece of dead cow, ground up and served with cheese and condiments in a bun, with a side of fries. It’s not a Carbo-Booster, an Iron-Blaster or a CalciYumYum. It is what it is. Which cannot ever be said about the Peanut Butter Moo’d.
Read Chris Ayres’s LA blog here