ECONOMICS: The Sun Never Sets On Cacoola

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As he skillfully drove through downtown Milan's maze of narrow streets, he explained: "I have a position of responsibility. Now you will see, everywhere we go today the people will not call me just 'Pretti' or 'Come here, Pretti.' Instead, they will say 'Signor Pretti,' for I am the representative of Coca-Cola." At his first stop, on the Via Santa Marta, Signor Pretti made a few cheerful remarks, straightened a Coke sign on the wall and departed. At the Zi' Cori, a tiny refreshment room, Pretti wiped the dust from the red Coca-Cola disc, stopped to listen to the woes of the proprietress' daughter: her fiancé had been called to arms, and in order to persuade the Blessed Virgin to keep the young man from harm, the girl had—as a special sacrifice—given up her daily quota of a dozen Cokes. "She has become as thin as a nail," wailed her mother, "and I have been afraid she would die."

Pretti clucked sympathetically and went on to the sleek Barca d'Oro, an expensive restaurant. In these elegant surroundings Pretti smiled and bowed politely, but in the dimly lit workers' restaurant in the Via del Gesù he shifted to an easy manner and a broad Milanese dialect. He explained: "I must put myself in harmony with the environment."

In the Via del Gesù, Pretti met his sharpest test. As he carried his case of Coke into one restaurant, a wine-drinking taxi driver called out: "There comes the licorice water!" Pretti indignantly reeled off a long list of Coke ingredients which had nothing to do with licorice. "Have you," Pretti asked, "ever tasted Coca-Cola?" Said the taxi driver: "Once—and never again." Said Pretti: "Ah, but you must try Coca-Cola in the wine." He produced two bottles and poured them into a glass of Chianti. Two of the customers tasted the mixture. They approved of it cautiously. As Pretti left they were ordering another round. "You see," said Pretti outside, "that is the system. You have to keep talking."

Off the Old Block. Titular principal of Coca-Cola's vast educational institution is ex-Democratic Boss James A. Farley, chairman of the board of the Coca-Cola Export Corp. But the boss of the Export Corp. is its president, slight, dapper James Curtis, who has spent nearly 27 of his 48 years with the company and whose gentle New Orleans drawl makes "Coca-Cola" sound like a whispered caress.

Actually, the heart of Coca-Cola remains Atlanta, and its hard, all-powerful head remains Robert Winship Woodruff.