FROM SHOES TO MOOS

Image via WikipediaWell-Heeled Men Behind Manolos Try on Hooves for Size
Fashion Executives Are Dairy Godfathers to a Herd of Cows; $4.49 a Half-Gallon

LITCHFIELD, Conn.—On a recent afternoon, George Malkemus and Tony Yurgaitis, the top two executives of the Manolo Blahnik luxury shoe brand, sat around a table and admired their newest collection.
"Just look at that color," said Mr. Malkemus, the CEO.
"You can really see the difference in quality," said Mr. Yurgaitis, the vice president.
They weren't talking about Mr. Blahnik's stiletto designs for spring. They were gushing over skim milk. (click below to read more)


Having persuaded women that $575 is a reasonable sum for slingbacks, Mr. Malkemus, 57, and Mr. Yurgaitis, 66, are now seeking to join the crème de la crème of the dairy world.
Messrs. Malkemus and Yurgaitis serve as majority owners of the Manolo Blahnik label. Sold at upscale retailers like Neiman Marcus and Barneys New York, the shoes are crafted, mostly by hand, at Italian factories in quantities of no more than 120 pairs per day.
Last year, Arethusa, their 325-acre farm in Litchfield County, began selling pricey branded milk and yogurt at 23 retail accounts, including Whole Foods. The milk sells for $4.49 per half-gallon, or more than twice the national retail average.
Arethusa's products, like the footwear, are being touted for their careful production and limited distribution. The farm's milk, packaged in a plastic bottle emblazoned with cows and the logo "Milk Like it Used to Taste," is sourced only from the farm's 350 show-strutting cows.
"Are we going to do some kind of berry granola crunch yogurt? No!" says Mr. Malkemus, who prefers to stick with the classics in both of his businesses. "We don't do platforms," he adds, dismissing the top shoe trend of the past three years.
Their venture is putting to the test just how far dairy marketers can milk the notion of exclusivity. Not everyone swallows the idea.
"All milk is pretty much processed very similarly," says Greg Miller, executive vice president for research, regulatory and scientific affairs for the National Dairy Council. "So, it's hard to see where the value might come from for some of these products."
Arethusa cultivates an aura of haute-living heifers. A sign above their abode reads: "Every cow in this barn is a lady, please treat her as such."
They munch on the finest, protein-enriched hay and rest upon soft wood shavings from Canada. Workers vacuum their bodies on a daily basis in a spa-like room. ("There's not a single fly" on any cow, boasts Mr. Malkemus.)
To plump up their coats and tails, cows are treated with some of the same beauty products used by ladies who lunch. Brands like Artec shampoo are slathered on dark-haired cows, while Pantene is preferred for the blonder bovines.
Such beauty regimens have fired up local rivals.
"We don't groom our cows," says Robin Chesmer, managing member of The Farmer's Cow, a cooperative of six Connecticut dairy farms. His herd, he says, consists of "working girls" who don't have fancy pedigrees or compete in cattle contests. And their milk, at $2.79 a half-gallon, is just as good, "if not better," he says.
Others sniff that Arethusa milk isn't really a luxury because it doesn't qualify as organic.
Dante Hesse, owner of the Milk Thistle Farm in Hudson Valley, charges $7 per half-gallon for his certified-organic milk. He says that Arethusa's milk is inferior because the owners use antibiotics—a forbidden practice in the organic world. He considers it to be "conventional milk."
Mr. Malkemus says he only uses antibiotics when a cow gets sick. "Much like in the fashion world, there's a great deal of jealousy and rivalry in dairy farming," he says.
The farm just received its license to market across state lines and is preparing to showcase its goods to buyers at the Bergdorf Goodman of dairy retailing, Murray's Cheese Shop in Manhattan.
Messrs. Malkemus and Yurgaitis purchased the farm, located across the street from the country house they share, in 1999. Mr. Malkemus, who hails from Texas and used to milk cows at his uncle's farm, says the dairy idea came naturally. After renovating the barns, they started investing in cows. The move baffled some of their associates in high fashion.
"I didn't quite understand it," says Vogue contributing editor André Leon Talley. "They bought seven cows. It didn't register."
Mr. Blahnik, who isn't involved in the venture, was intrigued. The last time he visited, a few years ago, he made a drawing of a heifer in high heels.
When the entrepreneurs first started attending cattle shows a decade ago, some people called them "gentlemen farmers,'" recalls Mr. Yurgaitis.
But, after the two men hired a highly regarded breeder named Ernie Kueffner in 2002, their cows began racking up awards. In 2004, two of their cows, Veronica and Melanie, took top honors at the 2004 World Dairy Expo—a first for a single farm.
Mr. Malkemus was surprised to receive a congratulatory note from Patrick O'Connell, Vogue's main publicist at the time. As it happens, Mr. O'Connell grew up in rural Wisconsin and still keeps up with the cattle news from back home.
For the next few years, Arethusa focused on the booming market for prize-winning cow embryos, particularly in the U.K. The farm also sold its raw milk to a cooperative, for about $1.70 per gallon.
In late 2009, raw milk prices collapsed by more than half, to their lowest level in 40 years. The embryo market also weakened. "We have to do something," Mr. Malkemus thought at the time.
Mr. Blahnik recalls advising the partners, "My God, you are spending so much money on this farm. Why don't you make your own milkshakes and things?"
The men had already been discussing their own milk brand, which would enable them to sidestep the tightly regulated cooperatives and charge whatever the market would bear.
In January, Messrs. Malkemus and Yurgaitis unveiled their high-tech dairy processing facility in an old fire house in Bantam, Conn. The $5 million plant also contains rooms for cheese making and aging, a giant freezer for ice cream and a retail space downstairs.
The dairy operations aren't expected to break even for at least three years, the partners say. That hasn't curtailed their lavish spending.
A $150,000 computerized feeding unit, suspended from the milking barn's ceiling, dispenses customized food blends tailored to each cow's diet.
For Vivid, who was recently preparing to strut her stuff at a cattle show in Syracuse, the goal was to be runway-ready.
Vivid's rapid weight-loss program, centered around high-protein fare, would be the envy of any supermodel: She lost 75 pounds just 30 days after giving birth.