The Janklow Ambition

Just found this story in the June issue of Vogue, in which literary agent and writer Luke Janklow -- son of uber-lit-agent Mort Janklow and arts access advocate Linda Janklow -- recounts how he and his wife, Julie, pulled off opening their restaurant Sweetiepie -- that totally adorable hot spot for kids and girlfriends alike in the West Village -- in the midst of recession, not to mention a major home renovation.

Apparently, it's working out okay, because Mr. Janklow is speculating about Sweetiepie locations in Tokyo and London. He argues the concept works because the food isn't expensive: you can get a grilled cheese for $8, or fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy for $20, he writes. (He doesn't mention that the stuff everyone orders is higher-priced: like the $10 miniature cakes, the $75 Sweetiepig sundae, or the $24 salads.) But it's not just about money for Mr. Janklow: there's the paternal gratification of seeing his son August "happy in his saloon," where he likes to hang out behind the bar.

The most priceless anecdote in the piece is Mr. Janklow's account of how he set out to raise money -- he was looking for $2.5 million. Well, his friends probably lavished $2.5 million on him as he made his rounds, but that didn't mean he walked away with their investment:

Last July, I started to raise money; it had taken ages to get the legal documents of the offering plan together. Some friends were there right at the beginning to get the ball rolling—$75K here, $100K there. But I was pitching in all directions: old money, new money, garment guys, hotel guys, speculators, and innovators. And so far I had little to show for it.

Then, one of our key investors, a fellow from London, suggested I try there. At the time, the pound was killing the dollar, and a UK investor could by shares in Sweetiepie for essentially half price. I made some very promising headway there but no signed checks just then.

From London, I allowed myself to be willingly kidnapped and taken by private jet (owned by an Iraqi prince who lived in Dubai whom I had met the night before at two in the morning after Elton John’s big AIDS fund-raiser) to St.-Tropez, where a friend told me he would introduce me to some Russians who were always open to groovy investment opportunities and often took big stakes. There I commenced two days of surreal and white-knuckled fun hunting: There were helicopters (my first) to take us (and one, inexplicably to take our bags); midnight dinners with Naomi Campbell and her retinue, all in white linen; a bottled table at the Les Caves du Roy; a loud and blinding brunch at La Voile Rouge—all scored by an unceasing Studio 54–like disco backbeat. A few Nebuchadnezzars later and a desperate escape from private yacht to fly jet steerage back to London and I had procured another 200 large. But we were just a quarter of the way there, and the Russian contingent was apparently not looking at restaurant investments . . . and who could blame them?

Maybe now that he's told his story in Vogue, Mr. Janklow can forego the wild parties and get some checks to fuel his ambition. Read it all here.