The Dollar-Fifty Doctrine
The hot dog costs a dollar fifty. It has cost a dollar fifty since 1985. This is not a pricing decision so much as a theological commitment — a statement about what kind of company Costco intends to be, encoded in a tube of beef and a cup of soda. When Craig Jelinek, then the incoming CEO, approached Jim Sinegal about raising the price, Sinegal's response entered corporate scripture: "If you raise the effing hot dog, I will kill you. Figure it out." They figured it out. Costco built a hot-dog manufacturing plant in Los Angeles, vertically integrating its way to maintaining a price point that loses money on every unit sold. The hot dog is not a product. It is a proof of concept — evidence, renewed with every transaction, that Costco will sacrifice margin before it sacrifices the member's trust.
That a $270-billion-a-year retailer, the third largest on Earth, can be understood through a $1.50 hot dog tells you nearly everything about the machine. Costco's operating logic inverts the fundamental assumption of retail capitalism: that the purpose of a business is to charge customers as much as the market will bear. Costco charges as little as it can, caps its markups at 14% on branded goods and 15% on its private label, and derives the overwhelming majority of its profit not from the spread between cost and price but from a single line item on the income statement — membership fees. The merchandise is the lure. The membership is the business. Everything else is engineering.
The result is a company that generates $254 billion in net sales across fewer than 900 locations worldwide, that turns its inventory faster than almost any retailer on Earth, that operates on negative working capital — meaning its suppliers effectively finance its operations — and that has compounded revenue at roughly 10% annually for thirty-five consecutive years. Its stock, which traded at $45 in 2005 when
Nick Sleep made it a core position in Nomad Investment Partnership, now hovers near $1,000. The Kirkland Signature private label alone generates more revenue than Nike. And 71% of Iceland's population holds a membership card.
By the Numbers
The Costco Machine
$254BNet sales, FY2024 (52 weeks)
$4.8BMembership fee revenue, FY2024
145MTotal cardholders worldwide
92.9%Membership renewal rate, U.S./Canada
~4,000SKUs per warehouse (vs. 30,000+ at a supermarket)
$1,400Estimated sales per square foot
897Warehouses worldwide, end of FY2024
316,000+Employees globally
But the numbers, impressive as they are, conceal a tension that has defined Costco since its founding and now, in the post-Sinegal era, threatens to define its future. The company's extraordinary success rests on a culture — a set of operating principles about labor, about restraint, about the relationship between employer and employee — that was forged in the personality of a single man and transmitted through decades of apprenticeship. The question that animates Costco today is whether that culture can survive its own scale. Whether the discipline that made the machine can outlast the machinist.
The Lawyer Who Wore a Condom
The story begins, as stories about American retail so often do, with a man who saw something no one else had seen.
Sol Price was born in 1916 to labor-socialist Russian Jewish immigrants in the Bronx, a child of the Depression who absorbed his parents' politics and witnessed their privations. The family moved to San Diego after his father was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Price was a prodigy — skipping two grades, deciding to become a lawyer after following the Scopes trial at thirteen — who attended USC law school and practiced in San Diego before a client mentioned an interesting store in Los Angeles.
The store was Fedco, a nonprofit open only to federal employees, who paid a small fee to become members. The membership structure circumvented laws at the time that allowed manufacturers to set minimum retail prices. Some five thousand San Diegans were making the two-hundred-mile round trip to shop there. Price recognized the gap immediately. San Diego, transformed by the Second World War into a major military hub, was booming with exactly the kind of federal employees Fedco served. When Fedco declined to participate, Price opened FedMart in November 1954, in an industrial building near the tuna canneries.
FedMart was a laboratory. Under Price's leadership, three strategies crystallized that would eventually constitute Costco's DNA. First: embrace unprepossessing real estate. Shopping in the 1950s was a dress-up affair pursued in downtown department stores; Price bet that consumers would sacrifice ambience for value. Second: practice "the intelligent loss of sales." Limit the variety of items in stock. Instead of trying to meet every possible customer desire, trust that most shoppers would buy the product in front of them — the No. 1 toothpaste brand rather than No. 3. Fewer items meant fewer workers, simpler logistics, greater buying power per SKU. Third — and this was the tenet that would echo most powerfully through the decades — treat employees as an investment, not a cost. Price believed being a good employer was good business. "You must feel confident that you are working for a fine and honest company," he wrote in a 1965 memo to FedMart employees. "You will be permitted, encouraged, and sometimes even coerced into growing with the company to the limit of your ability."
The discount retail revolution that FedMart helped birth accelerated through the 1960s — Kmart, Target, and Walmart all opened in 1962 — but Price was already thinking beyond it. After a bitter takeover by the German businessman Hugo Mann in the mid-1970s, Price and his son Robert conceived something new. What if you took the distribution warehouse that had been Sinegal's fiefdom at FedMart and turned it into the store itself? Sell wholesale goods directly from pallets to small businesses. Charge a membership fee — twenty-five dollars a year — as a cash-flow buffer that could be factored into gross margins. Eliminate every cost between the manufacturer and the customer that did not directly serve the customer.
The first Price Club opened in 1976 in a former airplane hangar on San Diego's northern outskirts. Within a few years, it expanded beyond small-business clients to ordinary shoppers, and by the time it (almost accidentally) went public in 1979, it had more than two hundred thousand members. When asked how it felt to be the father of an industry, Sol Price replied that he should have worn a condom.
Robert Price's account of this period,
Sol Price: Retail Revolutionary and Social Innovator, captures the irreverent intellect of a man who viewed retail as a mechanism for expressing ethical convictions — about labor, about value, about the moral obligations of capital — rather than merely a mechanism for generating profit. Price died in 2009. His condom joke turned out to be prophetic: the industry he fathered spawned imitators almost immediately. BJ's, Pace, Sam's Club — they came rushing in between 1982 and 1984. But only one of them would endure as the purest expression of his original vision.
The Apprentice from Pittsburgh
Jim Sinegal was eighteen years old and on winter break from San Diego City College when he accepted a one-day job at FedMart in the early 1960s. He came from blue-collar Pittsburgh, carried sofas for a living, and had no particular ambition in retail. A few days into the job, Sol Price saw him hauling furniture and hollered at him to put it down before he broke his back — or, worse, the merchandise. "That's just Sol," a colleague reassured the startled teenager.
He stayed for more than twenty years. There is a pattern in the annals of American business — the master craftsman whose apprentice absorbs not just the technique but the philosophy, then builds something larger than the original. Sinegal was Price's apprentice in precisely this way. He ran FedMart's distribution system, which operated almost as a separate business and became a profit center. He learned the mechanics of buying, of negotiation, of the precise calibrations involved in pricing goods to move at volume while maintaining trust. "He was a tough boss, as tough as shoe leather," Sinegal told the New Yorker in 2025, "but he was a marshmallow inside."
When Price was pushed out of FedMart by Hugo Mann, and when Price Club proved the warehouse-club concept could work at scale, Sinegal became the logical person to replicate it. In 1982, a Seattle retail heir named Jeffrey Brotman approached him. Brotman's family had tried to get Price Club to expand to Seattle; the Prices weren't interested. Now Brotman proposed that he and Sinegal launch their own version. The pitch to investors was disarmingly simple: "Let's duplicate what Price Club is doing." They wanted a simple name for the venture, Sinegal recalled, "and we couldn't come up with anything clever."
Let's duplicate what Price Club is doing.
The first Costco Wholesale Club opened in Seattle in September 1983. A promotional flyer read "Costco Wholesale Club Comes to SEATTLE," faintly implying it already existed elsewhere. Two more warehouses opened before the end of the year. Costco became the first company in American history to grow from zero to $3 billion in sales in under six years. But Sinegal's genius was not in speed — it was in synthesis. Costco was not a copy of Price Club. It was a recombination: Price Club's wholesale model and substantial membership fees, layered with FedMart's staples — private-label goods, gasoline, groceries. Staff carried over too. Sinegal recruited FedMart veterans.
Brotman, who served as chairman, died in 2017 at seventy-four. He is the less-remembered co-founder — the dealmaker, the financier, the political connector (his family had deep ties in Washington state). The division of labor was clear from the start: Brotman handled governance and external relationships; Sinegal ran the machine. And the machine ran on a single principle that Sinegal enforced with religious intensity: the markup cap. Costco could mark up merchandise by no more than fourteen percent. Fifteen in the case of Kirkland goods. Sinegal received a report on anything that reached more than thirteen percent. "You didn't want to be on that list," recalled Pat Turpin, a Costco executive in the 1990s.
The Paradox of Restraint
What looks like appetite run amok — gallon jars of mayonnaise, 16.62-pound slabs of boneless rib eye — is in fact a sign of profound restraint. This is the core paradox of the Costco model and the thing that most casual observers get wrong.
A typical Costco warehouse carries approximately 4,000 SKUs. A Walmart supercenter stocks roughly 120,000. A conventional supermarket carries 30,000. The limitation is not a concession to simplicity; it is the strategic foundation upon which everything else is built. By carrying only the No. 1 or No. 2 brand in each category — plus a Kirkland Signature alternative — Costco concentrates purchasing volume into a vanishingly small number of SKUs. This concentrated volume gives buyers extraordinary leverage with suppliers. A single Costco SKU might sell more units nationwide than the combined output of a dozen competitors' shelf positions. That leverage translates into lower cost of goods, which translates into lower prices, which translates into more members, which concentrates volume further.
The intelligent loss of sales. Sol Price's phrase. Costco does not try to serve every customer need. It trusts that most customers, presented with the No. 1 toothpaste brand and a Kirkland alternative, will pick one of them. The ones who won't — the devotees of
Brand No. 7, the people who need a specific flavor or a specific size — self-select out. This is not an accident. It is the system purifying its own membership base, selecting for the customers who value low price and adequate selection over infinite choice.
The consequences cascade through the entire operation. Fewer SKUs mean fewer items to receive, to shelf, to count, to manage. Goods arrive on pallets and are sold from pallets — warehouses require almost no product handling between dock and sales floor. This eliminates layers of labor, reduces shrinkage, and speeds inventory turns. A Costco warehouse generates roughly $1,400 in sales per square foot, a figure normally associated with luxury jewelry stores, not purveyors of bulk paper towels. Costco turns its average inventory roughly twelve times per year. This matters enormously because it means Costco sells most of its goods before it has to pay its suppliers, generating negative working capital — the suppliers, in effect, finance Costco's operations interest-free.
Costco is able to offer lower prices and better values by eliminating virtually all the frills and costs historically associated with conventional wholesalers and retailers, including salespeople, fancy buildings, delivery, billing, and accounts receivable. We run a tight operation with extremely low overhead which enables us to pass dramatic savings to our members.
Nick Sleep, the legendary investor who ran Nomad Investment Partnership, articulated this dynamic in 2005 with a precision that has become canonical among quality investors. Sleep called Costco a "perpetual motion machine" — a business whose competitive moat deepened as it got bigger because the consumer was "consistently cut-in on the benefits of the company's growth." The consensus, Sleep wrote, was that Costco was "a low-margin retailer with an expensive stock and a cost problem. That is certainly one description. But in our judgment it is a cost-disciplined, intellectually honest, high-product-integrity, perpetual motion machine trading at a discount to value." He estimated Costco could conservatively compound revenue and free cash flow at 13% per year — 4% from improving asset turns at newer stores, 4% from same-store growth at mature locations, and 5% from new store openings. The stock was roughly $45 at the time.
The Merger and the Marriage That Wasn't
By the early 1990s, the warehouse-club landscape had consolidated into a three-way race: Costco, Sam's Club (Walmart's entry, launched in 1983), and Price Club. Sam's Club was expanding aggressively, leveraging Walmart's distribution infrastructure and real estate prowess. Costco had momentum. Price Club was flagging.
Sol Price had relinquished his official leadership role. Robert Price's fifteen-year-old son had recently died of cancer, devastating the family. In 1992, the Prices decided to seek a buyer. Costco was the natural choice — the philosophical heir, the company built by Sol's own protégé. The merger closed in 1993, creating PriceCostco, with 206 locations generating $16 billion in annual sales. The combined entity had the scale to compete head-to-head with Sam's Club.
But the enduring partnership that Robert Price had envisioned — himself as chairman, Sinegal as CEO, the two companies' cultures merging into something larger — never materialized. "My dad had this idea that we could take these two companies that were so similar in terms of philosophy," Robert told the New Yorker, "and I would be chairman and Jim would be the C.E.O. It never worked." Within a year, Robert left. The company dropped "Price" from its name in 1997. FedMart, the original template, had been liquidated seven years after Sol Price's departure. Now Price Club was absorbed. The lesson was clear: in retail, the brand that executes hardest absorbs the brand that hesitates.
📜
Costco's Corporate Evolution
From Price Club to Costco Wholesale Corporation
1954Sol Price opens FedMart in San Diego, establishing the membership-discount model.
1976Price Club opens in a converted airplane hangar — the first warehouse club.
1983Sinegal and Brotman open the first Costco in Seattle. Three warehouses by year's end.
1986Costco opens its first pharmacy (Oregon). By now: 17 locations, 1.3M members.
1993Costco and Price Club merge to form PriceCostco. 206 locations, $16B in sales.
1995Kirkland Signature private label introduced, replacing ~30 disparate house brands.
1997Company renamed Costco Companies, Inc. "Price" dropped from the brand.
The Brand That Ate Its Category
Costco had, by 1995, some thirty different private-label names scattered across its warehouses. Simply Soda. Chelsea toilet paper. Ballantrae wine. Clout detergent. Nutra Nuggets dog food. They were forgettable — and Sinegal knew it.
He had been inspired by a 1991 Forbes article about rising profit margins for leading consumer goods companies. The article quantified what Sinegal intuitively understood: brand premiums were widening, and the gap between cost of production and retail price was money being taken from the customer. A single, unified private label — one that could match or exceed the quality of national brands at a meaningfully lower price — would claw that premium back for the member.
He named it Kirkland Signature, after the Seattle suburb where Costco's headquarters were then located. (The company later moved to Issaquah, but the name stuck — "Issaquah" would have been, in Sinegal's view, too much of a mouthful.) The first Kirkland items were vitamins. Over the following three decades, the brand expanded to encompass roughly 550 products — everything from golf clubs to gasoline, from batteries to bourbon.
The discipline was absolute. "We don't just put our name on products that someone else makes," Claudine Adamo, Costco's chief of operations for merchandising, has explained. "Any new item goes all the way to the CEO's office for sign-off." The identities of Kirkland's contract manufacturers are treated as trade secrets, though it is known that Starbucks makes some Kirkland coffee, Duracell produces Kirkland batteries, and Kimberly-Clark — parent of Huggies — manufactures Kirkland diapers. These companies participate because Costco's volume is too large to ignore, even when the product carries someone else's name.
Kirkland Signature generated $56 billion in revenue in Costco's most recent fiscal year — roughly 23% of total sales. Add Kirkland gasoline, and the figure swells to $80 billion. If Kirkland were a standalone company, its revenue would exceed that of Nike ($51 billion), Coca-Cola ($46 billion), and United Airlines. The top Kirkland items by sales are, characteristically, mundane: toilet paper ($1.4 billion in 2022), paper towels ($1.2 billion), bottled water ($730 million). The most profitable brand in American retail is built on what you flush down the toilet.
Walmart's Sam's Club followed Costco's lead in 2017, merging twenty store brands under the label Member's Mark. "Costco did such a great job of that over the years with Kirkland," Sam's Club CEO Chris Nicholas acknowledged. But Kirkland's twenty-two-year head start in building consumer trust — reinforced by the ironclad quality guarantee and the institutional knowledge of Costco's buying organization — represents a competitive advantage that may be more durable than any tariff schedule or distribution network.
The Church of Membership
"The most important item we sell is the membership card," Ron Vachris has said. This is not rhetoric. It is a precise description of the business's architecture.
Costco's membership fees totaled $4.8 billion in FY2024, an increase of 5% year-over-year. Membership revenue carries no cost of goods sold. It is, in effect, a subscription payment that arrives before the customer buys anything, with renewal rates of 92.9% in the United States and Canada and 90.5% worldwide. In many years, membership fees have constituted roughly two-thirds of Costco's total operating income. The merchandise is sold at something approaching cost; the membership is where the profit lives.
This structure creates a peculiar and powerful incentive alignment. Because Costco's profits do not come from the spread between cost and price, the company has no reason to extract margin from the customer. Every dollar saved on merchandise is a dollar that reinforces the member's conviction that the annual fee is worth paying. The fee is, as Sinegal told
Jeff Bezos in a 2001 meeting at a Bellevue Starbucks, "a one-time pain, but it's reinforced every time customers walk in and see forty-seven-inch televisions that are two hundred dollars less than anyplace else."
Brad Stone recounts this meeting in
The Everything Store, his biography of Bezos. Sinegal laid out the entire Costco model: limited SKUs, no advertising, bulk buying, 14% across-the-board markups, profit from membership fees. "It reinforces the value of the concept," Sinegal explained. "Customers know they will find really cheap stuff at Costco." Bezos was reportedly so taken with the model that Sinegal later speculated Amazon Prime — a paid membership that unlocks benefits and reinforces loyalty — may have been directly inspired by Costco's structure. Bezos, characteristically, has never confirmed or denied this.
The membership model also creates a self-reinforcing selection effect. The annual fee — $65 for a Gold Star membership, $130 for Executive — filters the customer base toward higher-income, higher-volume shoppers who will spend enough to justify the cost. These high-volume members generate more sales per visit, which improves inventory turns, which lowers costs, which justifies lower prices, which attracts more high-value members. The flywheel turns.
In July 2024, Costco announced its first membership fee increase in seven years, raising Gold Star by $5 and Executive by $10. The company explicitly committed to investing the incremental revenue in member and employee experience. The infrequency of the increase is itself a strategic signal — a demonstration of pricing restraint that reinforces the trust that makes the fee palatable when it does rise.
Boss as Folk Hero
Sinegal took a salary lower than that of his peers at other Fortune 500 companies. He wore a Costco name tag. He smiled hugely in official photographs. He visited warehouses obsessively, thanking employees by name, inspecting merchandise, assessing execution. Steven Seguin, a sixteen-year Costco employee, remembered Sinegal, on a warehouse visit, greeting each worker individually. It was a management style calibrated to embody the ethos the company preached: if Costco was a family, then the CEO was the patriarch who knew your name.
The labor practices were not merely gestural. In a landmark 2006 Harvard Business Review article, Wayne Cascio compared Costco's workforce with Sam's Club's: Costco generated far higher profits per hourly employee while paying substantially more in wages and benefits. Turnover was a fraction of the industry norm. The economics were counterintuitive only if you accepted the prevailing assumption that labor was purely a cost to be minimized. If you reframed it as an investment — in institutional knowledge, in customer service quality, in operational consistency — the math worked.
Zeynep Ton, a professor at MIT's Sloan School of Management and the author of The Case for Good Jobs, has studied Costco extensively. She calls Sinegal her "business hero" and brings her MBA students to visit a local warehouse with him almost annually. A student once told Ton that visiting the Waltham, Massachusetts, Costco with Sinegal was, after her wedding day, the best day of her life.
At Costco, it's better to be an employee or a customer than a shareholder.
This complaint, which circulated on Wall Street for years, was both a legitimate observation and a fundamental misunderstanding. The analyst was right that Costco's margins were thinner than they could have been. But the thinness was the point. As Nick Sleep wrote: "The firm could earn Wal-Mart margins by taking pricing up a little and the stock would then trade at 11x earnings, but would it be a better business as a result? We think not, because it might allow the competition to catch up." The low margins were a competitive weapon, not a weakness. They deterred entry by making the economics unattractive to anyone unwilling to replicate the entire system — the culture, the labor model, the buying discipline, the membership structure — that made thin margins sustainable.
Sinegal stepped down at the end of 2011. He was seventy-six. His personal offices in Kirkland, Washington, have become a kind of Valhalla for retired Costco executives — Jelinek has a desk there, and so does Richard Galanti, the CFO who served for nearly forty years. On a shelf near several unopened Kirkland liquor bottles sits a bronze pair of sneakers, mounted with a plaque: "Jim. These are some. Big Shoes to Fill. Non-Foods."
The Treasure Hunt and the Parking Lot
Costco does not advertise. It has no corporate public relations team. The stores have no signs directing you to merchandise. The experience is, by design, the opposite of frictionless — you fight for parking, search for products, schlep oversized packages, and wait in line. Costco's term of art for its shopping experience is the "treasure hunt," a nod to the limited-quantity luxuries that appear unpredictably on its shelves — Louis Vuitton Speedy handbags at three hundred dollars below market price, say, or W. L. Weller bourbon that draws overnight campers to a warehouse opening in Richland, Washington.
This deliberate friction serves multiple functions. It encourages browsing. The average Costco shopper enters with a mental list of five items and leaves with fourteen. High-ticket merchandise — televisions, jewelry, electronics — is placed near the entrance to create an anchoring effect; everything you encounter afterward feels less expensive by comparison. Staples like milk, bread, and eggs are positioned at the rear of the warehouse, forcing a journey through the full inventory. Seasonal and "treasure hunt" items are scattered unpredictably, creating a sense of discovery that rewards repeated visits.
The food court — hot dogs, pizza, rotisserie chicken — is almost always positioned so that you must pass through the entire warehouse to reach it. The $4.99 rotisserie chicken, like the $1.50 hot dog, is a loss leader: Costco reportedly loses $30 to $40 million per year on rotisserie chickens alone. It is among the company's most powerful instruments for driving foot traffic.
The samples.
Free food samples are among retail's most cost-effective conversion tools, and Costco deploys them with a sophistication that belies their humble appearance.
Sampling stations, staffed by third-party employees, are positioned throughout the warehouse and rotate products strategically. They create micro-pauses in the shopping journey, slow traffic (increasing browsing time), and drive trial of new products. The cost is borne partly by the vendors whose products are being sampled — another instance of Costco leveraging its purchasing power to subsidize the member experience.
A cottage industry of Costco content creators has emerged in the past five years: influencers with millions of combined followers posting near-interchangeable updates on warehouse finds. Claudia Chee, a burned-out ex-Google employee, built more than two hundred thousand followers as @costcoclaudia by trying on Costco clothes in Bay Area warehouses. A former independent pro wrestler named A. J. Befumo and his preteen son Eric found fame on TikTok by proclaiming themselves "Costco guys," in a video that has amassed more than sixty-five million views. In January 2020, TMZ published a photo of
Mark Zuckerberg browsing electronics at the Mountain View warehouse. "This man can have anybody buy his flat-screen TV," one Costco influencer marveled. "But he was, like,
No, I'm going to Costco."
The company does not pay these people. It does not need to. The friction that generates stories, the treasure hunt that rewards evangelism, the cult-like attachment that turns a trip for paper towels into a identity statement — these are the mechanics of a word-of-mouth growth engine that operates at near-zero marginal cost.
The Third CEO and the Question of Culture
Ron Vachris became Costco's third CEO in January 2024 at the age of fifty-nine. He had started as a seventeen-year-old forklift driver at Price Club — the company that would merge with Costco a decade later. Forty-one years inside the organization. He managed warehouse expansion in Arizona, ran operations in merchandising, oversaw real estate. He was, by every measure, the ultimate insider — a "lifer" in a company that celebrates lifers, where 98% of store managers have risen through the ranks and employees wear nametags listing their hire dates.
Sinegal himself had warned about the succession challenge. In a 2011 interview with the Seattle Times, reporter Melissa Allison asked whether his ability to maintain generous employee benefits was "a founder's luxury." Sinegal said he thought Jelinek, his immediate successor, would be fine: "It's the third and fourth generation of management that probably will have more difficulty with that."
Vachris is the third generation.
During Jelinek's tenure — 2012 to 2023 — Costco grew from 161,000 employees to more than 316,000, added upward of six million members, and navigated both the pandemic and the rise of e-commerce with remarkable steadiness. Net sales roughly doubled. The stock became a Wall Street darling. Morgan Stanley's Simeon Gutman, who coined the term "super-culture" for Costco, told the New Yorker that the company had won credibility by succeeding in the face of Amazon, the pandemic, and the shift to online retail. Membership fees now fund approximately two-thirds of operating profit — a ratio that has held remarkably stable for decades.
But beneath the numbers, current and former employees describe a shift. William Oliver, co-founder of the investor research service In Practise, reports that Costco veterans he has interviewed describe "a deterioration from the perspective of Jim's old guard" — a move from "working for Dad" toward "a greater emphasis on shareholder return." Steven Seguin, the sixteen-year employee, mourned the small practices that once distinguished Costco — communal tables for break-room lunch, intensive buddy-system training. After Sinegal stepped down, he told the New Yorker, warehouse walk-throughs by executives "began to feel less motivational than disciplinary." He gave his notice in the summer of 2025. There was no managerial farewell. No handshake. Just a perfunctory online exit interview in a back room.
This is not Jim Sinegal's Costco anymore.
New union activity has stirred. In 2023, a Norfolk, Virginia, warehouse became the first to unionize in more than two decades. In 2024, Costco's Washington state truckers became the company's first drivers to join the Teamsters. Jelinek and Vachris's joint response to the Norfolk vote — "we're not disappointed in our employees, we're disappointed in ourselves as managers and leaders" — was initially interpreted as introspection. But drivers in Washington report that the self-examination hasn't materialized. The company hired a new CFO, Gary Millerchip, from Kroger — a company whose own workforce study, produced by the nonprofit Economic Roundtable, described dire conditions including employees relying on government assistance or experiencing homelessness. Millerchip is the rare Costco executive who didn't start on a warehouse floor. His first act of reassurance to the public: the $1.50 hot dog is "safe."
The Culture Wars Come to Aisle Seven
In January 2025, a conservative think tank called the National Center for Public Policy Research submitted a shareholder proposal asking Costco to evaluate the financial risks of its diversity, equity, and inclusion policies. Costco's board of directors voted unanimously to recommend that shareholders reject it. "Our commitment to an enterprise rooted in respect and inclusion is appropriate and necessary," the board wrote. Shareholders agreed — 98% voted the proposal down.
The episode crystallized something about Costco's relationship to the broader political landscape. The company approaches controversy by casting its choices as neutral responses to the marketplace — "as the global landscape changes," Maggie Perkins, a Costco corporate trainer, observed, "if Costco's culture changes in a way that consumers do not appreciate, then Costco could lose who it is." This marketplace-as-compass approach works elegantly when the marketplace broadly agrees. It becomes more fraught when the marketplace fractures.
After the Dobbs ruling, the New York City comptroller urged Costco to stock the abortion drug mifepristone. Anti-abortion groups took up the opposite cause. In August 2024, Costco decided not to stock the drug, citing "lack of demand." The anti-abortion groups claimed victory. (Costco will stock Ozempic and Wegovy.) Sinegal himself was a longtime Democratic donor who hosted presidential fund-raisers at his suburban Seattle home, but his successors have been markedly circumspect — Jelinek once told a reporter that his father, who built B-1 bombers, warned him against entering any business dependent on partisan politics. "People will always have to eat," the elder Jelinek advised. His son never forgot it.
The D.E.I. vote generated a wave of coverage favorably contrasting Costco with Target, Walmart, McDonald's, and other retailers that had retreated from diversity commitments. Costco said nothing. It has no corporate PR team. Costco declined to make current executives available for interviews with the New Yorker. The silence itself is a strategy — one that works until it doesn't.
The Salmon and the Hot Dog
When Costco shifted most of its farmed salmon sourcing — six hundred thousand pounds per week — from Chile to Norway, it caused upheaval in the global fishing industry. This is the kind of sentence that tends to get lost in profiles about parking-lot comedy and hot-dog folklore, but it captures the company's actual scale of influence with more precision than any anecdote about Instagram influencers or TikTok celebrities.
Costco is the world's largest seller of choice and prime beef. It is a major player in the pharmaceutical supply chain (its pharmacy discount programs save members up to 80% on medications), the optical industry, the gasoline market (Kirkland Signature fuel is certified TOP TIER), the travel industry, the publishing industry (Pennie Clark Ianniciello, Costco's book buyer for decades, built the company into a publishing-industry power by the mid-2000s), and — through Kirkland Signature — a major consumer packaged goods company in its own right. When Costco decides to source something differently, to add a product or drop one, the effects ripple through global supply chains with a force disproportionate to its relatively modest store count.
The company operated 897 warehouses worldwide at the end of FY2024 — a tiny footprint compared to Walmart's 10,500+ locations or even Target's 1,900+. But each warehouse generates roughly $162 million in annual revenue, compared to $80 million per unit at Sam's Club. On a per-square-foot basis, Costco's productivity exceeds $1,100 — numbers normally associated with Tiffany, not with a retailer whose aisles smell of clean concrete and plastic wrap.
Trump's tariff agenda creates uncertainty for all retailers, but Costco's position, as Gutman told the New Yorker, is "unquestionably better than most." The company sources widely and in enormous quantities, and groceries — which are overwhelmingly domestic — now represent the largest share of warehouse sales. The diversification of sourcing, the leverage to negotiate landed costs, and the flexibility to shift suppliers rapidly give Costco structural resilience to trade disruption that many competitors lack.
Annual net sales for the fiscal year ending September 2024 were reported at $249.6 billion for the 52-week year, with net income of $7.4 billion — $16.56 per diluted share, an increase of 17% year-over-year. The company's fiscal 2025 annual report records net sales of approximately $270 billion. The stock, hovering around $1,000, carries a premium valuation that reflects the market's conviction that the flywheel — members, volume, low prices, more members — will continue to compound.
Richland
In the summer of 2025, in the high desert on the eastern side of Washington's Cascade Range, a town called Richland became home to the nine hundred and thirteenth Costco.
Richland is a barren place. In 1943, the area just to its north was selected as the location of the Manhattan Project's first large-scale plutonium-production reactor, which produced the plutonium for the Fat Man bomb dropped on Nagasaki. The local high school teams are still, improbably, called the Bombers. Matthew Walther, writing in the Catholic magazine The Lamp, proposed Costco as a model for reimagining the role of a parish in contemporary American life. "Costco did not grow," Walther wrote. "Instead, it rose up in a barren place and people came to it."
The night before the opening, employees gathered at the warehouse with their families. Some wore green — the Bombers' color. The food court had pizza, hot dogs, and squares of sheet cake, a plastic fork planted neatly atop each. Near the golf carts and electronics, a man with a 1997 nametag reminisced about the days when they served prime rib at these parties.
Ron Vachris was there, shaking hands and greeting babies, with the mild civic familiarity of a small-town mayor. He held a manila envelope collecting dollar bills: following company tradition, employees wrote their guesses for the first day's sales on a bill, and the closest guess won the pot. It had been a long week — Vachris had also opened warehouses in Florida, Guadalajara, and Quebec.
Outside, the sky had grown dark and the wind had picked up force. A handful of shoppers were setting up camp to be first into the warehouse on opening day. Seated at the head of the line were two men: Greg, who had a gray beard and glasses, and his nephew Craig, who had small blue gauges in his ears. They had brought a cooler, a cribbage set, and sleeping bags. "We both like bourbon," Greg explained. "But it's become an event."
By morning, the line stretched around the corner and beyond. Greg estimated they'd gotten ninety minutes of sleep but had enjoyed talking with their overnight companions. "It was an awesome community," he said. At the door, employees inside and prospective customers outside held their phones aloft and documented one another. The warehouse's general manager, a compact man in a blue floral dress shirt, cut a red ribbon. "Without further ado," he said, "let's sell some stuff."
