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The first thing Jill Francis did on her wedding day was head to the nearest Dunkin’. She had bought Dunkin’ tumblers for her bridesmaids to sip from as they got ready. She filled them with coffee before changing into a Dunkin’-branded silk bridal robe.
Francis, 30, who got married in New Hampshire in July, had not been paid to promote Dunkin’ products on her special day. Rather, she had gone online and paid Dunkin’ for the privilege of donning its merch. “It just made sense and it was a part of my personality,” she said, “everyone was like ‘Oh, that's so Jill.’”
Loving Dunkin’ is part of Francis’s identity. And she’s not alone. While Dunkin’ is far from the only brand dropping merch, it is the only brand that has the unique market of Charli D’Amelio superfans and diehards from New England cornered. Now, it’s capitalizing on that love. Over the past year, Dunkin’ has released, mostly in limited drops, increasingly off-the-rails swag including joggers, bedding, and a tandem bike. It has generated buzz (and some incredulity) online, but people actually seem to be buying it. Melanie Cohn Rabino, the director of brand engagement for Dunkin’, said through a spokesperson that, “While we can’t comment on specific sales, we often see items sell out almost immediately.”
Dunkin’s drops are standing apart because, despite being a massive corporation, Dunkin’ is an overwhelmingly normal brand. The thing that makes Dunkin’ Donuts special is that there’s nothing all that special about it. For years, the company conjured images of roadside drive-thrus, stale donuts, and the everyman relatability of Ben Affleck sloshing some joe. Its iconic marketing campaign of the 1980 and 90s featured a bedraggled, mustachioed baker saying “Time to make the donuts.” The classic drink to get there is “regular coffee.” That may appeal to the sensibilities of a generation of consumers savvy about what they are being sold and known to respond well to relatability. Dunkin’ has done an admirable job of pumping out on-trend gear -- its bright colors, tiled patterns and high logo presence echoes and parodies actual streetwear in a cute, amusing way. But it is also a happy coincidence of timing that a brand that is authentically itself has met a market eager to consume that.
Even a few years ago, though, Dunkin’ was not the young man’s coffee chain. Market research from Nielsen found that, between 2015 and 2017, a Dunkin’ customer was more likely to be over 55 than under thirty (the opposite of its West Coast competitor Starbucks). Peter Kochanek, 26, who used to work at one of the eight Dunkin’ locations in his hometown of Westfield, Massachusetts, recalled seeing “the same retirees who literally every single day of the week get their coffee, get their donut and sit there for literally hours.” But now Dunkin’, having shed the “Donuts” and gotten acquired by a private equity-backed holding company, is making a major play for Gen Z.
Limited-edition merch drops are known catnip for the under-30 crowd, and Dunkin’ is going in. Barbara Kahn, the Patty and Jay H. Baker Professor of Marketing at Wharton, said that “The drop is inherently interesting because it's a principle of scarcity, there isn't enough to go around.” Gen Z loves community, and drops establish an exclusive niche, or “an in group-out group” dynamic. Dunkin’s strategy, coupled with its bright colors and irreverent vibe of the merch, “does kind of scream young,” she said.
Further bolstering its cred with the youth is the fact that, in addition to the merch drops, Dunkin’ landed an authentic partnership with the queen of Gen Z herself: influencer Charli D’Amelio. Charli was posting about Dunkin’ iced coffee before the company paid her to, but it was quick to formalize the relationship, and named not one but two drinks for her once it did and released special merch. Rabino said, “We know Dunkin’ appeals to Gen Z and cementing our relevance amongst this group with products, activations and partnerships is key to our growth.” She added that Dunkin’ sold hundreds of thousands of The Charli —a cold brew with whole milk and three pumps of caramel that reportedly tastes like the leftover milk at the bottom of a cereal bowl —within days of its launch last fall, and that The Charli Cold Foam (it’s The Charli, with cinnamon sugar and...cold foam) earlier this year “did even better.” Scott Murphy, the President of Dunkin' Americas, boasted on an earnings call last year that, “on the launch day of the Charli TikTok partnership, we hit a new record for daily active app users," according to a transcript of the call.
Dunkin' is making efforts to connect with influencers and young people beyond Charli, too. Molly Gruber, 18, a Dunkin’ employee and student in Gilberts, Illinois, has amassed nearly 500,000 followers on TikTok, partly thanks to her participation in the Dunkin’ TikTok crew ambassador program. She posts about new products and gives out discount codes. Her peers took notice of the arrangement, and, she said,“definitely more and more people got jobs at Dunkin’ just to make TikToks.”
She said that “everyone my age drinks Dunkin,” citing the low prices and customizable drinks as reasons. Gruber even got her own special drink at her location: The Molly, an oat milk caramel latte with cold foam.
But low prices and syrup flavors alone do not a hit make. For at least a certain slice of Dunkin’ customers, a sense of regional connection to the chain makes them willing to shell out on merch. Josh Gondelman, 36, a comedian and a producer of Desus and Mero, grew up in Massachusetts. He said that Dunkin’ “feels so regional if not hyperlocal, and I think there's a pride in that.” He acknowledged it is “a very neat trick of a giant company to be like, ‘Hey, we are your local hometown spot,’” but he doesn’t let that cognitive dissonance weigh on him too heavily. He happily wears a Dunkin’ mask around Brooklyn, where he now lives, and enjoys the Dunkin’ sneakers, robe and sweatpants he also owns.
Alyssa Gerstner, 30, said that she bought herself a Dunkin’ robe after seeing one of Gondelman’s tweets about it. She likes Dunkin’s coffee okay, but found her robe to be a joyous treat in a tough year. She thinks that the chain's popularity in New England is largely due to its no-frills approach. “I feel like the people of New England decided that Dunkin’ Donuts was going to be a part of their brand,” she said, and not necessarily the other way around, adding that locals sort of “latched on” to the chain. Indeed, Nielsen found that a striking 54 percent of adults in Manchester, New Hampshire had visited a Dunkin’ in the 30-day period leading up to the survey.
Wearing gear for a brand you like is an obvious way to telegraph loyalty and cultural identification. But what kind of message, exactly, are you sending when you put on Dunkin’ gear?
In a very basic way, it’s funny to see something you know and love from one context transposed to a radically different one. David Price, 28, an artist and illustrator in Boston, said “A Dunkin’ Donuts bathrobe is extremely funny—it absolutely does not need to exist in the world, but now that it does I really want it.”
Unlike the recent viral success of the postal service swag, which similarly hinged on the dissonance between pragmatic brand and luxurious expression, the Dunkin’ gear has no whiff of social or civic purpose; Dunkin’ is not a cause to be rallied behind. It’s tempting to call it ironic, but to Gondelman it’s not exactly that, either: “I don't think it's like, ‘Oh, isn't it stupid that I'm wearing a Dunkin’ Donuts bathrobe,’” he said. To him, Dunkin’ claiming the space of private relaxation and luxury that is the bathrobe is just a bit cheeky, presented with a wink. That a coffee, donut, and bagel joint with a reasonable price point would enter your bathroom is novel.
It also raises some uneasy questions. Even though it’s silly and surprising, this merch does place a brand in increasingly, even outrageously, intimate spaces. It’s funny to have Dunkin’ bedding—but it also means you have paid to put what is effectively an advertisement in your bed.
People traditionally project identity outside of the domestic sphere, for a public audience. You wear a branded shirt to the bar, or stunt in a set of joggers on the subway. But, especially this year, with social media allowing people to perform identities from home, the domestic is not off limits for brands. Dunkin’ has seamlessly swooped in.
Maybe Dunkin’ is colonizing the next frontier of ad space, in our homes, blasting through a boundary that can never be repaired. Or maybe they are just having fun in a year when we really, really need it.
Either way, people are indeed having fun. Jill Francis, reflecting on her wedding day, said it was all so special. There was only one way that Dunkin’ could have made it better: “I was a little disappointed they didn't have robes for the bridal party,” she said. “I absolutely would have bought them.”
