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Published in the City Weekly, 29 March 2007

See Spot Run

by John Rasmusen

My daughter-in-law's birthday fell two weeks before Christmas. That meant two gifts back-to-back for a woman who works for Columbia Sportswear, eschews costume jewelry, hates to sweat, drinks Beaujolais sparingly and owns all of Brookstone's gadgets. Her standard reply to most of my offers is: "I'm all set." And she's not just being polite. She is, however, fond of J. Jill clothes, manicured flower gardens and a bowl of ice cream after the three kids are tucked into bed.

The decision of what to give her was tending toward yet another uninspired gift certificate when I came upon an advertisement in these very pages which raised the intriguing prospect of FedExing Spotted Dog ice cream to her in Massachusetts.

I once had read Ted Scheffler's column on Salt Lake City's gourmet ice cream, but I had never sampled it. So I drove south on State Street to check it out. There, tucked away in a concrete-gray industrial area, I found the spotted dog. He was just inside the glass door with an orange ball in his mouth. His owner John Winders was leaning against the wall. He welcomed me to the Spotted Dog Creamery like a televangelist embracing a repentant sinner.

He began to talk. In short order, his hands flailing like Keith Lockhart, he had moved from the natural ingredients and 16 percent butterfat of his "super premium ice cream" to bemoan the fate of small businessmen at the hands of the suits in corporations, government and banks. Without so much as a deep breath, he segued to biodiversity, the City Creek development and sustainable agriculture. By the time he got to Halliburton, he was rocking from foot to foot as if to stabilize the energy building within.

A self-described "single gentile from New Hampshire with a big mouth," Winders is passionate about an array of subjects. At the center of that spidergram is Spotted Dog Creamery, a fragile, 4-year-old business that must grow. "Otherwise we're in deep s--t," he said. What stands in the way of growth, according to Winders, are the "layers of unbelievable hassles that confront the small businessman."

You would think that Winders would be a fat cat, having cornered a lucrative niche market in this ice cream-loving state. But that is not the case, and he is frustrated. Especially irksome is the fact that he believes he has done everything right. He works long hours. He's on the right side of economic issues, he's at pains to craft a premium confection, and he's done the right promotions. He even joined Rocky Anderson's crusade, "licking global warming," with a bittersweet, chocolate ice cream named Mayor Rocky Road.

"I'm a foodie at heart," said Winders, who came to Utah in 1989 as a chef for a Deer Valley restaurant. "This is a chef-driven product," handmade ice cream with the best, all-natural ingredients available. "After 25 years in restaurants, I can't make crap," he said.

Nevertheless, success remains elusive simply because the playing field is not level for entrepreneurs like Winders. "I wish big business, government and banks would facilitate, not impede, small business," he said. "I'm tired of being marginalized."

He has no compunction about providing the names of those who have done him dirt. Many are well known in the valley. Some are hypocrites; some are unethical; some are greedy; most are just cogs in a retail-food system that provides shelf space to "corporate food" instead of local upstarts like Spotted Dog. Competing with big companies on the grocery store shelf is both tough and expensive despite the fact that, on average, corporate food is trucked 2,000 gas-burning miles to reach the retailer. "I can do anything they ask but write a check," he said.

Winders said all he wants is a level playing field. In the few stores that have agreed to allocate shelf space to Spotted Dog–Emigration Market, for example–"we kick ass," he said. The problem is that besides Emigration and Smith's, only a few other places sell his ice cream.

Winders said the coming downtown development could be a boon for people like him. "I hope it is something other than just another collection of franchises," he said. "I hope it works to provide incentives to local businesses."

Hopper, the black-and-white spotted dog, interrupted with his moist, orange ball. X 96 was playing in the back room. Winders paused. Then he told me point-blank that I could help–should help. I could buttonhole the manager of Albertsons where I shop, asking that Spotted Dog ice cream be on the shelf alongside Ben & Jerry and Häagen Dazs. "Consumers have power," he said. Moreover, "when you buy local, you incentivize small business."

Although "frustrated and emotionally spent," Winders is resolute. He means to stay the course–not cut and run–in part because of his affinity for Utah. "I feel Salt Lake City is my home," he said. "I'm so fortunate to be here." He talks about expansion, yogurt and other new products and even better ice cream. "We're a solid 'B' right now," he said. "I want to be an 'A.'"

I plunked down my credit card for six pints of ice cream to be shipped to Massachusetts. They arrived intact a day later. She especially liked the pumpkin flavor I had selected for her. Before I left, I tossed the ball a few times for the spotted dog to chase. It seemed like the right thing to do.

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