It’s the product, not the package!

Several months ago I read a comment on twitter by a female entrepreneur about how she was beta  testing the outfits she would wear  when pitching to VCs. She was methodically working her way through a rigorous matrix of choices: Skirt? Slacks? Oxford? Dress? Did black perform better than bright colors? Which was the optimal combination?

This kind of thing makes me crazy! It makes me want to reach out through my smart phone and throttle the entrepreneur, shouting, “Forget your wardrobe! Is your idea good enough? Stop fiddling  with your outfits; focus your energies on your company!“

To date, I raised funding for four startups, including $12 million for Neato Robotics at a time when hardware was less than popular to venture capitalists. It’s a given that you shouldn’t smell bad or be dirty at a pitch (or anytime, for that matter). But smelling good isn’t going to seal the deal. Getting funding comes down to three things: team (can the VC can work with this entrepreneur and his/her team, especially if times are rough?), market (is this entrepreneur’s idea at the cusp of a large opportunity?), and fit (will this company/idea integrate with the fund’s ethos?). If you have these three ingredients, it won’t matter if you have no make-up on and are wearing jeans and a tee instead of a dress and heels--the investor will engage.

By all means wear what makes you confident. Spiff yourself up if that’s what you need to get the job done. Most importantly, be yourself, but make sure you’ve got the tools you need to properly engage those VCs interested in your ideas and vision. The VC isn’t investing in your clothes, or your appearance; they’re investing in you.

Box Seat at the Chef’s Table

My favorite place to eat is in restaurant kitchens. If I can score a seat at the chef’s table, it’s two thumbs up for me. I’d always eat back there if I could. I’d like kitchens to have a “standing room only” option at a table somewhere in the back of the house, the way theaters do. 

A restaurant’s back of the house is analogous to theater in other ways, too. A well run-kitchen operates almost like a ballet—a precision dance of preparing, plating, and pushing food through the line. I love watching the choreography of it, hearing the music blasting and the occasional “FUCK! Where did they put the spoons!” from a disgruntled manager trying to keep everything on track.

The front of the house is all about a quiet, tasteful experience. You rarely hear the staff grumble or curse. It’s so much more real and present back where things are coming together.

In the back, I can also see my food being prepared before I eat it—another plus! This raises my expectations. When you eat in the front of the house, particularly if you order a tasting menu, you have no idea what is about to come to your plate. My way, watching each course being prepared, you get to salivate in anticipation .

I love the whole busy, time-tested, hectic but regimented show. As a former operations person who has spent a lot of time on manufacturing house floors, I am fascinated by how restaurant kitchens feel similar to the way I think a 1950’s factory floor would be. Not much has changed in the kitchen from that time, either. Pop a WWII-era chef into one of today’s kitchens, and I bet he would know exactly what to do and how to operate most of the equipment. A microwave or a sous-vide might puzzle him, and he’d likely admit that a robot-coupe would benefit from an update, but the rest would suit him perfectly. But that’s all secondary to any skilled chef julienning vegetables or searing a steak to perfection. That is the timeless spectacle, and like any good piece of theater, something not to miss.