Delivering the Cream of the Crop
By Corey Lyons
Contra Costa Newspapers
Jan. 26, 2001
PLEASANT HILL -- Nathan Vanek, with his perpetual smile, steers a large milk truck onto Oak Park Boulevard and steps on the gas.
When the clutch suddenly fails, Vanek, appearing relaxed, tries to navigate the 1966 Chevy behemoth to safety.
"Oh my goodness," he says, while coasting down the busy boulevard toward one of his customers' homes.
Milking in the new millennium is an unpredictable adventure indeed, but Nate the milkman always finds his way.
Like a figure seemingly lifted from the set of a 1950s sitcom, Vanek makes his daily rounds through the East Bay with a nostalgic sense of purpose and an unflinching spirit.
"Just weavin' through the neighborhoods," says the 28-year-old owner of Pleasant Hill-based Nate's Dairy.
In an era of online shopping and 24-hour convenience marts, the milkman is about as difficult to find these days as a beehive hairdo.
But from behind the wheel of his trusty walk-through van, Vanek delivers the chilled goods to about 100 customers from San Ramon to Martinez.
To his customers, the young milkman is a mythical figure from a bygone era, a man embraced by young and old alike.
"When I stop at a day care center, you should see them they start shouting like they're at a rock concert," Vanek says.
The milkman trade, which initially began as a conservation effort for World War II, began to crumble once the first supermarkets sprang up.
By 1973, only about 10 percent of Americans were still getting milk delivered to their homes.
But Vanek, who took over a 35-year-old family business, isn't worried about his place in history. The dairy courier sells about 55 cases of Foster Farms milk or nearly 500 half-gallon cartons each day.
He does not use computers, Web sites or toll-free numbers to help pitch his service. He simply scrawls order numbers into a three-ring binder and relies strictly on word-of-mouth for advertising.
"The stuff is fresh, and it keeps me from going to the grocery store," says Sheri Kehoe, a Pleasant Hill mother of two who has been using Vanek's goods for six years.
"Plus, it's so cool to have a milkman I had one as a kid."
A few years ago, Vanek took over the family business founded by his uncle Ed Vanek and father Nathan Sr. Vanek's wife, Sandra, pitches in each week, delivering milk to several customers on Fridays from the distinct spotted-cow van that Nathan Sr. used to drive on his own routes.
"She's a hard worker," Vanek says of his wife, whom he met at Bible study and married in June. "She can work circles around me."
Hard work is a necessity in this antiquated business. In the land of milk and money, the competition is stiff. Vanek is confident that nothing will spoil the family fun, despite more tech-savvy and deeper-pocketed competitors like Webvan, an online grocer that delivers everything from apricots to zinc tablets.
He points to his own personalized service to the homes of scores of time-starved working couples; he estimates that he saves the average customer about $40 a week.
"It's once or twice a week that they won't be at the grocery store, being tempted to buy more things they don't need," he says. "I know that. Because I'm a compulsive shopper well, before I got married, anyway."
Also, Vanek adds, his milk is fresher than his competitors' because only a minimal amount of time is spent transporting the milk from the cow to the front door.
Californians today chug 70 million gallons of milk per year, said Jeff Manning, executive director of the California Milk Processor Board in Berkeley.
Vanek had one customer from Concord whose thirst for milk was unquenchable.
"He was a big guy, about 300 pounds, and I'd drop off five gallons for him on Monday and add six more on Thursday," Vanek says.
Once, Vanek watched in amazement as the man drained a half-gallon carton right in front of him. "I couldn't imagine. How can somebody drink that much milk?"
Not that he's complaining. Vanek has forged a special bond with his customers, one of whom has been receiving doorstep delivery from the Vaneks for 25 years. One customer loaned him luggage for his honeymoon; another gave him an automobile engine.
Clutching a pair of gray crates full of milk, Vanek hustles toward a front door on Hardy Circle in Pleasant Hill.
"Once the second delivery goes well," he says, looking over his shoulder, "it's all good."
Contra Costa Newspapers
Jan. 26, 2001
PLEASANT HILL -- Nathan Vanek, with his perpetual smile, steers a large milk truck onto Oak Park Boulevard and steps on the gas.
When the clutch suddenly fails, Vanek, appearing relaxed, tries to navigate the 1966 Chevy behemoth to safety.
"Oh my goodness," he says, while coasting down the busy boulevard toward one of his customers' homes.
Milking in the new millennium is an unpredictable adventure indeed, but Nate the milkman always finds his way.
Like a figure seemingly lifted from the set of a 1950s sitcom, Vanek makes his daily rounds through the East Bay with a nostalgic sense of purpose and an unflinching spirit.
"Just weavin' through the neighborhoods," says the 28-year-old owner of Pleasant Hill-based Nate's Dairy.
In an era of online shopping and 24-hour convenience marts, the milkman is about as difficult to find these days as a beehive hairdo.
But from behind the wheel of his trusty walk-through van, Vanek delivers the chilled goods to about 100 customers from San Ramon to Martinez.
To his customers, the young milkman is a mythical figure from a bygone era, a man embraced by young and old alike.
"When I stop at a day care center, you should see them they start shouting like they're at a rock concert," Vanek says.
The milkman trade, which initially began as a conservation effort for World War II, began to crumble once the first supermarkets sprang up.
By 1973, only about 10 percent of Americans were still getting milk delivered to their homes.
But Vanek, who took over a 35-year-old family business, isn't worried about his place in history. The dairy courier sells about 55 cases of Foster Farms milk or nearly 500 half-gallon cartons each day.
He does not use computers, Web sites or toll-free numbers to help pitch his service. He simply scrawls order numbers into a three-ring binder and relies strictly on word-of-mouth for advertising.
"The stuff is fresh, and it keeps me from going to the grocery store," says Sheri Kehoe, a Pleasant Hill mother of two who has been using Vanek's goods for six years.
"Plus, it's so cool to have a milkman I had one as a kid."
A few years ago, Vanek took over the family business founded by his uncle Ed Vanek and father Nathan Sr. Vanek's wife, Sandra, pitches in each week, delivering milk to several customers on Fridays from the distinct spotted-cow van that Nathan Sr. used to drive on his own routes.
"She's a hard worker," Vanek says of his wife, whom he met at Bible study and married in June. "She can work circles around me."
Hard work is a necessity in this antiquated business. In the land of milk and money, the competition is stiff. Vanek is confident that nothing will spoil the family fun, despite more tech-savvy and deeper-pocketed competitors like Webvan, an online grocer that delivers everything from apricots to zinc tablets.
He points to his own personalized service to the homes of scores of time-starved working couples; he estimates that he saves the average customer about $40 a week.
"It's once or twice a week that they won't be at the grocery store, being tempted to buy more things they don't need," he says. "I know that. Because I'm a compulsive shopper well, before I got married, anyway."
Also, Vanek adds, his milk is fresher than his competitors' because only a minimal amount of time is spent transporting the milk from the cow to the front door.
Californians today chug 70 million gallons of milk per year, said Jeff Manning, executive director of the California Milk Processor Board in Berkeley.
Vanek had one customer from Concord whose thirst for milk was unquenchable.
"He was a big guy, about 300 pounds, and I'd drop off five gallons for him on Monday and add six more on Thursday," Vanek says.
Once, Vanek watched in amazement as the man drained a half-gallon carton right in front of him. "I couldn't imagine. How can somebody drink that much milk?"
Not that he's complaining. Vanek has forged a special bond with his customers, one of whom has been receiving doorstep delivery from the Vaneks for 25 years. One customer loaned him luggage for his honeymoon; another gave him an automobile engine.
Clutching a pair of gray crates full of milk, Vanek hustles toward a front door on Hardy Circle in Pleasant Hill.
"Once the second delivery goes well," he says, looking over his shoulder, "it's all good."
posted by Corey at 9:54 PM
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