Pinkberry creator Young Lee oozes Asian action star.
Taller than Bruce Lee and more handsome than Jackie Chan, he is clad in a black jacket and Tom Ford shades that border on obnoxious.
Wondering if any self-respecting mafia would allow itself to be associated with something “pink” and “berry,” I half-expect Lee’s underworld cronies to emerge hi-ya, hi-ya-ing to escort him through this interview. But he surprises me in another way.
“Obnoxious, eh?” the Pinkberry founder said, nearly reading my mind when I ask him where he got his sunglasses.
Speaking of obnoxious, this innocuous-looking dessert has earned quite the reputation around town; it’s called “Crackberry” and “liquid heroin” by devotees and detractors alike.
Despite copycats such as Snoberry, however, Pinkberry’s Westwood location continues to gather pious followers in lines like those found at amusement parks.
The practicing architect launched Pinkberry with girlfriend and business partner, Shelly Hwang, two years ago.
It was Lee’s travels which inspired the Pinkberry taste. In Vienna, he had gelato, which has a similar kind of taste, he said.
Pinkberry’s own taste was formulated by Lee and Hwang right here in Los Angeles ““ over one year of experimentation and thousands of gallons of wasted milk.
“It was low fat from the beginning, but it became nonfat,” Lee said, as a result of hours spent tweaking the recipe.
For each batch, they went “through the whole process ““ put the yogurt in the machine, pump it out, clean it out,” he said. “It was a Hercules effort.”
Most frozen yogurt isn’t really frozen yogurt, and before Pinkberry came on the scene, I used to wonder why frozen yogurt tasted nothing like yogurt and more like runny ice cream.
If the unusual behavior of people around Pinkberry is any indication, the “Hercules effort” was worth it.
During my initial foray into the Pinkberry topic, I did preliminary field studies. Camouflaged among the students, families and couples who gather at this modern watering hole, I observed them in the Pinkberry habitat.
As I file outside with the parade emerging victorious with cups of snowy perfection, I overhear bewilderment: “It’s real fruit!” Some people keep silent. And still others are just in a daze.
Other yogurt places “are like a miniature 7-Eleven,” Lee said, explaining the psychology of Pinkberry. Because customers are bombarded with choices, “the “˜yogurt’ part gets diluted out, and it gets confusing.”
In a dizzying consumer world, Pinkberry offers simplicity with only two flavors: plain or green tea. (Though admittedly, there is some decision-making involved in the eye-popping array of fresh fruit, cookie and candy toppings.)
“We went against all odds (with the two flavors),” Lee said. “People said, “˜You’re not gonna make it.'”
Lee’s intuition is sound, as I can’t imagine getting bored of the green tea yogurt; the fruity tartness gives way to that distinctively malty, slightly bitter flavor of matcha.
The health benefits of green tea are touted to death these days, but Lee refrains from new-age preaching about antioxidants and inner peace. Instead, in a very unscientific manner, he explains that machines containing green tea yogurt are much easier to clean than machines containing plain yogurt.
Lee doesn’t always go for ease though: He aims for perfection.
“Perfect doesn’t come from practice. Perfect comes from perfect practice,” Lee said, recalling his kickboxing coach’s demand for perfection, which he has applied to yogurt-making.
Kickboxing? I’m intrigued; maybe that’s where he gets his Jackie Chan aura from.
Even if no Pinkberry mafia exists, though, Lee is a fabulous keeper of secrets. I ask repeatedly about the yogurt-making process. But to prevent copycatting, Lee reveals nothing about the recipe or the “secret compound,” as he calls the factory location with a conspiratorial grin.
Lee may be tight-lipped about most Pinkberry secrets, but he leaks some insider tips on the soon-to-come unwritten menu.
“Try this,” Lee commands, handing me a sample cup containing a pretty unification of their two signature flavors. “It’s called “˜swirl.’ It’s on our incognito menu,” he said. “Like how kids know about “˜animal-style’ (at In-N-Out).”
He sure knows how to add fire to the fro-yo frenzy, and decision-phobes like me are thankful for the “swirl” option. Besides, I’ve always despised Diddy Riese, so I’m relieved that there is finally a new competitor on the Westwood scene.
Let the hate mail come. Let debates ensue about which is more overrated: Diddy Riese or Pinkberry.
But you know where I stand: I’m ready to show Westwood visitors my idea of perfection.
If you hate Diddy Riese too, e-mail Hsu at lhsu@media.ucla.edu.