Eddie Huang Wonders Whether the West Village Will Work

A pocket listing could be defined as the holy grail of real estate, dangled by brokers to the select few lucky enough to be in their circle. When wielded correctly, it’s designed to present your broker in such a light that they take on near-mythological status as a trustee of the wealthiest, most powerful landlords who are holding the city’s best real estate. It conveys that your broker is on the interior; they are personal conduits for the city’s true operators and can’t even spell Loop Net.

When I started looking for a home in L.A. circa 2015, friends would brag that they’d purchased their home or business via pocket listing. A well-known musician friend of mine acquired a beautiful Los Feliz home and told me simply, “It was a pocket,” before reclining in his chair, feet up in leather Unc sandals, sipping on an energetic chilled red from Jura dewy with condensation.

The words reverberated in my mind: “It was a pocket …”

So when I started to interview brokers in 2017, my first question was, “Do you have pocket listings?” Some would disparage the idea, saying it was all a gimmick, that everyone had the same access to everything, but the brokers wealthy enough to live in the neighborhoods they showed in would confidently reply, “Yeah. Sure. Who doesn’t?” knowing that their competition in Culver City shopping at Suit Supply likely shakes with anxiety at this question.

Ultimately, I did a stupid thing. After meeting several brokers, including the shiny Los Feliz broker known to have pocket listings, I went with a broker recommended by a good friend who gave me a discount. One day I will tell you how big a mistake it was, but it is hands-down the worst financial decision I have ever made in my life. Especially with the new laws that allow for negotiations on your broker’s rate, it was foolish of me to trust the broker trying to acquire my business via discount. Anyone who offers one is either not in demand or not very good or has a serious gambling problem. The rare exception is when they’re truly a friend, but that is very, very rare and should not be your first instinct.

Commentary on the aberration known as true friendship aside, when a broker who I had previously seen some restaurant properties with approached me at the end of a July night at Gazebo, five minutes after my broker, Noah Jay, walked out, to offer me a pocket listing, I was intrigued. Considering I had been open and honest throughout this series that I was already represented by someone, there was a bit of messiness to his approach. When something as glorious as a pocket listing is offered like a blowjob under the table, your alarms have to go off. Why would something this delicious be treated with such disregard? I still can’t for the life of me understand how Hugh Grant cheated on Elizabeth Hurley and was similarly confused why this pocket listing was being offered by the bar at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday.

“I am working with Noah Jay,” I reiterated.

“I think you’ll like this place,” he said. “Full kitchen, venting, liquor license, prime West Village.” Enticing.

“Can you disclose the location?” I asked.

“I will via email. The restaurant is still in operation.”

That worried me, but it also explained a lot. It was a bit naughty for the landlord to offer a lease with a restaurant in operation.

“What’s the key money?”

“No key. The landlord wants an A1 tenant. That’s the priority.”

I had to give it to him. This broker had something rare, even if it was a touch underhanded. I immediately sent a voice note to Noah.

“Yo, ____________ just pulled up at the bar and offered me a pocket listing.”

“Where?” He responded immediately.

“Prime West Village, full kitchen, venting, liquor license.”

“How much?”

“No key.”

No response. We both knew this was good but also affected Noah’s commission and business if I wanted to go for it.

“I’m fine if you’re interested,” he responded.

“I’m sticking with you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see what it is. Worst case, he reps the landlord.”

I finished my quart container of tequila, soda, a splash of cranberry, and lime juice, and put myself to bed.

The email was impressive: about 1,200 square feet on the ground, a 2 a.m. liquor license along with photos of the interior dining room, outdoor patio, and kitchen. The price was $25,000 a month, which was healthy for both sides in our current market but an absolute steal when considering there was no key money for a handsome restaurant still in operation.

The next morning I showed it to my wife, Natashia.

“Oh shit,” she said, seeing this iconic Carrie Bradshaw–coded restaurant being offered as a pocket while still in operation.

“Yeah. I can’t believe the landlord is offering it behind their back.”

“That’s insane. I know that spot inside out.”

“WHO DID YOU DATE THERE?”

“Shut up! I’m literally holding our son.”

“Fair.”

I stopped interrogating my wife and called Noah.

“Yo. It’s ______ __________.”

“No way,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Damn. That’s good.”

Our jaws were collectively on the floor. Without putting a well-respected restaurant’s reputation on front street, I will say this in furtherance of our narrative: It’s an iconic place for brunch, birthdays, and private parties with outdoor seating and a beautiful, private back patio in a quaint, desirable part of the West Village. In other words, a dream location for Gazebo, even if I’d have to address my constant misgivings with ascending to nouveau-riche culture while doing exactly that, skew a little more daytime, a little less vampire of the dark-wave dance floor, and serve eggs.

“As long as investors don’t make me cook bao French toast, I’m so down.”

“Everyone knows you don’t take direction for shit, Eddie.”

“All right, at this point I think you call the broker,” I told him. “That way he knows we’re not messy. If he wants to make the deal, it goes through you and he reps the landlord.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. This is your deal. He can eat on the landlord’s side. I’ll protect your commission,” I told him.

“Thank you.”

Within hours, Noah was back with the particulars. The restaurant was fine and making money, but the landlord wasn’t so sure how much longer it would last since it hadn’t evolved in the two decades it had been in operation.

“Landlord just thinks the concept has gone stale and wants to get in front of it, but they are in negotiations with the current operators about staying,” he explained.

“Messyyyyyyyy!”

The next day, we went for a clandestine lunch at the location. At 1 p.m. on a lovely weekday, with the sun shining on our faces and the wind at our back, there were about six tables having long, leisurely lunches, including our table at the back corner of the backyard looking up at the delightful brick building it was situated in.

I tried to picture myself working here, which was difficult since I’d just seen the episode of And Just Like That … in which Duncan Reeves, the writer, is standing in a backyard just like this, smoking a pipe trying to write a novel about Margaret Thatcher, while I’m much more likely to hit a bong and write the autobiography of Chet Hanks.

In many ways the West Village is on a different time than the rest of the city, where its center stays relatively sleepy with old-timers examining Fabergé eggs at Buvette or tucked away in the evening at impossible-to-book restaurants like 4 Charles talking about Margaret Thatcher while the edges are hyperalert and “on” in the way hotel lobbies or Dave Attell used to be in Insomniac.

I thought about the perils of serving food in a neighborhood where every square foot of it felt performative but immediately pivoted to ordering steak and eggs. Over the last ten years, I have blocked pretty much every blessing besides my wife and son and refused to do it again while marinating in the backyard of a pocket listing. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to open a restaurant on an iconic West Village corner without having to pay key money, and I refused to pooh-pooh it.

Noah, oblivious to the shambling going on in my head, ordered something so specific to this restaurant that were we to disclose it our cover would be blown. The offerings were as we remembered them the last time we had them. It had all absolutely been stale for some time, but considering you dine at this place hungover, with a laptop, or surrounded by people in Gazelles and ballet flats who pick at as opposed to chew food and gladly pay to sit in the presence of food at Soho House, you understand its place in the ecosystem and don’t say anything.

“What’s next?” I asked.

“We send the deck and go from there.”

“Very well,” I said, as Noah got the check.

“We may have our spot.”

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