— 9 —
HE’LL KILL YOU, AND THEN HE’LL GO TO WORK ON YOU
Speaking of threats, the Billionaire was the first person from the world of the power lunch to drag himself downtown for a meal with us at Noodle Bar.
I assumed he wasn’t just coming in for the food—guys like the Billionaire are always on the hunt for investment opportunities. I got the sense that he was doing me a favor by checking us out, so at the conclusion of his lunch, I told him it was on the house.
“Son, that’s no way to run a business,” he said, leaving a hundred bucks on the counter as he walked out the door.
The idea of taking on a large investor had always been a prospect I kept on the far back burner, but it was coming up more and more as Momofuku grew. Thus far, I had said no to anyone who came knocking, out of fear of being screwed. Even a good deal can come with unforeseen complications. So I did the best I could with Dad’s input and an accountant on Long Island. I handled all the numbers myself with an unconvincing mix of constant worry and laissez-faire affect. I didn’t hesitate to make Quino a partner in Momofuku or give many of the cooks a piece of the restaurants where they worked—not that their equity amounted to anything. Every dollar of profit went straight back into the company.
That’s not to say I was uninterested in making money. Money would mean we could plan longer term, open more restaurants, take better care of people. I wasn’t ready to yield to the suits in New York, but the one path I’d seen other chefs walk with some degree of success was very appealing to me: Vegas.
The town seemed strangely pure. Nobody disguised their motives: I want money and I want pleasure and then I want to leave. It would be an interesting challenge to offer a compelling dining experience in a place no one expected to find one. It would also be a welcome reprieve from the New York slog. I didn’t ask for any of this, I’d whine to myself. I could be happy in the desert, sitting at the sports book, playing poker every day. I could be like Michael Corleone, moving the family business to Nevada.
Quino and I traveled to Vegas a few times to entertain offers from people on and off the Strip. Because they always showed us a good time, we were inclined to hear them out, but we never took any of it too seriously.
Then the Casino Boss came knocking.
The Casino Boss had done more to draw people to Vegas than Wayne Newton, Siegfried, Roy, and all their white tigers combined. He wanted to talk to us about his new resort. Given the man’s stature and legacy, I gave the offer more consideration than all the others.
The Casino Boss flew us in and showed us the over-the-top hospitality we had come to expect. (But honestly, if you’ve seen one giant suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and TVs built into the mirrors, you’ve seen them all.) A lackey accompanied us everywhere we went. I found myself holding my pee because I was sure someone was watching me in the bathrooms. Everyone we met spoke incessantly about the Casino Boss and his ways.
At one point I spotted the man himself and raised my hand to wave, but one of his subordinates redirected me toward a tour of the Boss’s Ferrari collection.
Over the weekend, we shared some meals with the Casino Boss’s brain trust and heard their case for opening a Noodle Bar in Vegas. In conversation, these people all spoke glowingly about their past corporations and ventures as a proxy for talking about themselves. I had the distinct feeling of a cow being fattened up for slaughter.
Another chef who’d worked with the Casino Boss served as one of our ambassadors over the weekend. While in Vegas I’d heard a rumor about this chef and the circumstances under which he’d agreed to open his Vegas restaurant. The story was that he had been flying on a private plane when he heard the sales pitch. Once the flight landed, the chef was not allowed to deplane until he signed the papers.
I thought that in coming to Vegas I’d avoided getting in the water with the sharks, but instead I’d swum right into the path of the biggest alpha predator anyone had ever seen.
On the final night of the trip, the Casino Boss rented out half a nightclub for us. It was astonishingly unnecessary, but I accepted the extra-ness of it all.
I was sitting on a couch by myself when the chef-ambassador approached. He whispered something in my ear. I couldn’t make out what he was saying over the music, but I heard a message very clearly in my head:
“Don’t do this deal.”
At one point, I almost sold Momofuku to a giant fast-food chain. Let me do my best to tell you the story within the confines of my nondisclosure agreement.
They are a big company. We were a small company that wanted to go big. I was very happy. For reasons, it didn’t work out. I 
that company.
Here’s another one that almost got me.
I had dinner with the Developer at a gaudy Japanese restaurant. Over the course of our meal, three different women joined us at different times. They ordered drinks but left without eating. None of their visits overlapped.
“I apologize for the interruptions,” said the Developer. “But I’m fucking all three of them.”
He told me he had spent years racked with guilt—not about the philandering, necessarily, but because all the travel kept him from seeing his kids.
“That’s one of the reasons I don’t think I’ll ever be a good parent,” I told him, trying to relate. “I’m married to my work.”
“But you know what I did, Dave? Do you know what happened?”
He milked the silence for dramatic effect.
“One day I decided I was no longer going to feel guilt. And you know what? My life has never been better.”
I suspected he was a sociopath before we met. Now I was sure of it.
The Developer wanted me to take over a small space on an exclusive piece of real estate in one of the hottest markets in the United States.
“I don’t care what you do, Dave. I trust you. Just make sure there’s a burger and eggs Benedict on the menu,” the Developer said. “And serve them at all hours. That’s what people want to eat after they fuck.”
Despite my reservations about his character, the Developer had a record of excellence and a preternatural skill for creating attractive spaces. I agreed to team up with him, and recruited a husband-and-wife pair of chefs I knew and admired to come onboard. They leapt at the chance to run an intimate restaurant that would cater to rich and famous people from around the world. Negotiations with the Developer went on for months. In the meantime, I took a trip to Northern California to do some work at the Culinary Institute of America’s Greystone campus. I was staying at the home of my friend Dr. Larry Turley, the proprietor of Turley Wine Cellars, a former ER doctor, and the father of Ko’s first sommelier, Christina Turley. Whenever I saw him, Larry would insist that I come to the vineyard and take some time off. I was obliging him.
Standing outside one morning, looking over a ridge onto the green expanses of Napa Valley, I got a call from my lawyer.
“They want to add a provision about the other property.”
As part of our agreement, I had committed to take over the food and beverage operations at another of the Developer’s spots. It was an amazing space, but not much had been done to it since the late 1990s. The whole building smelled like a pool changing room. Nevertheless, I’d agreed to tackle the project.
My lawyer explained that there was a last-minute amendment that had nearly escaped his notice: “In the event there’s any damage to the structure caused by the restaurant, you would assume responsibility.”
Under most circumstances, I wouldn’t mind being held responsible if my negligence destroyed someone’s building. But I had serious doubts that the restaurant space had ever been brought up to code. I’d seen exposed wood framing in the ceiling that screamed “fire hazard.” I was inheriting a house of cards and being told that if it fell, it would be on me. The Developer was trying to fuck me, too. I ran away from him as fast as I could.
I don’t think I was being paranoid. I speak to younger chefs about this all the time these days. Think about it. Where were all these people before you were successful? Why would they suddenly be so eager to get into business with you? They’re trying to exploit you, confuse you, bum-rush you with deals you don’t understand. I know from experience.