• Senators advanced a bill that would give prosecutors more time to bring pandemic fraud cases.
• They cited Business Insider's reporting on potential misuse of Shuttered Venue Operators Grant funds.
• The Small Business Administration says 69% of the $14.6 billion SVOG program may have been misspent.

Lawmakers just came closer to giving US prosecutors more time to pursue billions of dollars in suspected pandemic-aid fraud tied to restaurants and live entertainment — and cited Business Insider's investigation into how those funds were used by celebrities.

Senators passed a long-delayed bill on Wednesday night that would extend the statute of limitations for fraud tied to two relief programs: the $28.6 billion Restaurant Revitalization Fund and the $14.6 billion Shuttered Venue Operators Grant.

The bill would put the programs on the same legal footing as bigger, better-known pandemic aid packages that lost as much as $200 billion to fraud, like the Paycheck Protection Program. If it becomes law, prosecutors will have 10 years to bring charges of defrauding the programs, instead of the usual five.

Earlier this week, the Government Accountability Office reported that as much as $10 billion from SVOG funds may have been improperly paid out, which is more than 200 times larger than a fraud estimate the Small Business Administration published three years ago.

Business Insider previously reported that hundreds of millions of dollars were paid out to successful artists like Lil Wayne, Post Malone, metal legends Alice in Chains, and DJs including Steve Aoki and Marshmello. They used the money on private jets, luxury clothes, and payments to themselves, according to the investigation.

Sen. Joni Ernst, an Iowa Republican who has been the bill's main advocate, invoked that reporting in remarks on the Senate floor on Wednesday.

"For fraudsters, time flies when you're having fun," she said. "Look no further than rapper Chris Brown, who exploited the SVOG program to pay for his lavish $80,000 birthday party and paid himself $5 million in the process."

Lawyers and representatives for Brown didn't respond to requests for comment. Previously, in response to Business Insider's late 2024 investigation, an attorney for the accounting and wealth management firm that helped Brown's company get a federal grant, NKSFB, called Business Insider's questions "uninformed" and didn't answer them.

COVID fraud cases get more time

The bill passed with an amendment that would require enforcement to be "carried out in a nonpartisan manner," said Sen. Ed Markey, the top Democrat on the small-business committee that Ernst chairs.

The SBA has said that 70% of the restaurant support funds paid out by the RRF program were proper, but that it's "unknown" whether the remaining $8.7 billion was legally paid to eligible recipients. The agency's inspector general previously said more than $6 billion was paid out without doing enough to verify that recipients qualified for the money.

The agency has previously defended cutting checks under the shuttered venues program to "loan-out companies" used by big-name artists to ink performance deals.

Recipients included Broadway shows, arts companies, and cultural institutions that asked Congress for help paying bills they'd run up during the year-plus when public gatherings were limited because of the COVID-19 pandemic. The law also allowed payments to lesser-known groups, like talent agents.

There was no requirement that recipients be on the brink of bankruptcy. One Texas concert promoter received a $10 million grant in July 2021. About four months later, he bought a home for $2.1 million in cash.

The law creating SVOG allowed grant recipients to use the money for a broad range of purposes, including expenses deemed "ordinary and necessary" as well as compensation to the owners of for-profit businesses that received the money.

The new estimate of $10 billion in payment errors amounts to about two-thirds of the program's entire budget. SBA officials said that $4.5 billion of that was overpayments to businesses that "did not align with the established statutory guidelines" for payment. They also found errors with the monitoring of recipients' spending.

In 2023, the Biden administration said that one-third of 1% of the entertainment grants were "likely fraudulent." Government watchdogs say only some "improper payments" amount to fraud, so the new number isn't an apples-to-apples comparison with the 2023 figure.

More than 2,000 people have been sentenced for defrauding pandemic aid programs. The SBA inspector general has said many more cases are pending.

• Jatee Kearsley's bakery, Je T'aime Patisserie, gained fame after a viral feature on Righteous Eats.
• Going viral changed the trajectory of her business but took a toll on her mental health.
• Kearsley says she wouldn't want to go viral again, even though that may sound ungrateful.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jatee Kearsley, the owner and pastry chef of Je T'aime Patisserie, which offers a "Black girl twist" on French pastries in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. It has been edited for length and clarity.

In April 2024, I sat in my bakery with my Bible study group and told them I had $2,000 in my bank account and no idea how I was going to pay my employees the next day.

When I opened my bakery a year prior, I knew it would be hard. I had taken out loans. I had put in my own savings. I understood that small businesses require money for everything: rent, ingredients, payroll, insurance, and taxes.

Still, nothing prepares you for sitting in your own store and realizing you might not be able to cover payroll. Then, the day after meeting with my Bible study group, everything changed.

We were featured on Righteous Eats, a social media feed run by Jaeki Cho and Brian Lee that features New York City restaurants. The video went viral, and by the following weekend, my bank account looked completely different.

Going viral was a blessing. I will never pretend it wasn't. It changed the trajectory of my business. However, I don't think people talk enough about what going viral does to your mental health.

For me mentally, I don't want to go viral again. That might sound ungrateful, but it's honest.

Going viral didn't make the work easier

On a normal day before going viral, my team and I of about four, were making, on average, 200 croissants a week. After we went viral, demand shot up to about 200 croissants every other day.

I specifically remember selling four chocolate croissants the day before going viral and then 30 the day of. We make all types of croissants from scratch: chocolate, almond, ham and cheese, blueberry cheesecake, and more.

We laminate the dough, hand-roll each one, proof them, bake them, and fill them. Going viral didn't make our team any bigger, and I had to loop in friends, family, and volunteers to help fill orders and deliveries.

There were weekends when it was just me and one other person in the bakery at 6 a.m., trying to keep up.

Other days, I was filling 160 mini croissants for catering orders on top of regular production. I've even hand-rolled croissants on my day off because there was no one else to do it.

Going viral brought more customers, but it also brought higher expectations

People would leave reviews saying they waited hours, only to find we were sold out. I didn't want to disappoint anyone. So I slept on a bench in the bakery for a week straight after going viral to make sure I was keeping up with the demand that was needed during that time.

There's also the emotional weight that comes with virality. When we went viral the first time, it was exciting. It also meant strangers had opinions about everything: my prices, my neighborhood, the fact that I accept Electronic Benefits Transfer.

I accept EBT because I know what underserved, overlooked communities of people are dealing with. And I never wanted there to be a moment where someone walked into Je T'aime Patisserie and wasn't able to afford it.

I specifically wanted Je T'aime Patisserie to be in a neighborhood where people don't have things. Historically, Bed-Stuy is an underserved, overlooked food desert.

So, it was super important for me to make sure that my food impacts the neighborhood by providing high-quality, fresh pastries. People thought that accepting EBT was going to ruin my business, but it actually helped.

Everything I have achieved with my shop is because I accept all types of people in my store, including EBT and SNAP holders.

It's not about the money or going viral

I know this is Business Insider, and we're supposed to talk about numbers. But if I'm being honest, this has never been about the money for me.

If this were just about money, I would make different decisions. I would raise my prices more aggressively. I would stop worrying about whether a single mom can afford a croissant. I would probably choose a different neighborhood.

But I opened in Bed-Stuy on purpose. People told me my bakery "belonged" in Manhattan. I disagreed. I wanted someone who has never tried a fresh croissant or a quiche to walk into my shop and feel like they deserve it.

Financially, EBT makes up a small percentage of my revenue. But the support and gratitude from those customers mean more to me than the dollar amount ever could.

If I could run this business without making money, I would. Unfortunately, that's not realistic in New York City. You need money to survive. But my passion has always been about helping people and impacting my community.

Jatee Kearsley built Je T'aime Patisserie in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, with a mission to make high-quality French desserts accessible to everyone, including customers who pay with EBT.

A self-taught pastry chef who learned from YouTube and years of industry work, Kearsley went from losing money to tripling her sales after going viral. Despite the high ingredient costs, steep New York City rent, intense pressure, and emotional burnout, Kearsley has been dedicated to prioritizing community over profits.

• Michael Greene reflects on his journey running Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia.
• Despite not enjoying the work as a kid, Greene now finds joy in operating the family cafeteria.
• Greene's focus is on his kids' freedom, not pressuring them into the family business.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Michael Greene, 53, third-generation owner and operator of the 70-year-old Matthews Cafeteria in Tucker, Georgia. It has been edited for length and clarity.

My family has run Matthews Cafeteria for three generations. A fourth would be rare and special, but I don't expect it.

I have four kids, ages 12, 10, 8, and 4. They're all boys, and people often assume that at least one of them will take over one day, but I'm not going to push them into this business if they don't want it.

I was one of four, and my parents didn't pressure my siblings or me to run the family business. They gave us the chance to be anything we wanted. So when I think about my sons, I want them to have that same freedom.

I don't expect they'll want this type of work. I was the only one in my generation who wanted anything to do with the business, and it's a tough job. It's also extremely rewarding.

I didn't enjoy the cafeteria when I was growing up

At age 12, my parents required me to start working in the cafeteria during the summer. I started out washing dishes. I only spent about three hours a day at the job, but it felt like 12.

Meanwhile, my friends, who didn't have jobs, were at the pool. So, the cafeteria was by no means my favorite place to be as a kid because it felt like I was missing out.

That said, I plan for each of my sons to work the same job I did as a kid. My eldest will start this summer.

I don't expect him to like it, but it's important to see what his Dad does, to see where the money comes from, and what it takes to make a dollar.

I eventually found my way back to the family business

I can't remember exactly when I decided to go into the family business. Looking back, I think it was my destiny to end up here because cooking is my passion.

As a kid, I would watch chefs like Nathalie Dupree and Julia Childs on TV and try to recreate what they made. When I went to college, I majored in communications, but never found it rewarding.

Nothing else turned me on the way cooking did. Cooking was my only passion back then, and I'm lucky to say it still is today. Sometimes, when you have to make a living out of what you love, it takes the fun out of it. I'm grateful that the bottom line hasn't spoiled my joy.

I run the production side of things at Matthews, watching the food transform from raw products into what you see on your plate. That'll never get old.

The work is harder than it looks, though. You're on your feet all day — lifting, moving, cooking, solving problems. It's not a desk job.

Up until recently, I was here at 5 a.m. to open and stayed until about 3:30 in the afternoon. Now we open at 6 a.m., and I don't work quite as much as I used to because life is busy with four kids. I also have an incredible staff who, along with my wife, are really what keep this place running smoothly.

During COVID, my wife took on the business side — handling payroll, taxes, catering, everything — after our managers quit.

So, we really don't get to turn off ever — there's always something that needs to be done. That's why I don't take it lightly when people assume my kids will step into this business.

This business has given me a good life

If one of my boys wants to do this and has a passion for it, then I'll support that. But I don't want them to have it as a crutch. Instead, I want them to study hard, get an education, and forge their own path.

This business has given me a good life. It's supported my family and about 30 employees. It's where I met my wife. We got engaged at the same table where I first laid eyes on her. It means a lot to me now in a way it didn't when I was younger.

If one or more of my kids choose the same path, it will be because they want it — the same way I did.

• Allison Sheehan ran a baking business while working in private wealth at Goldman Sachs.
• She left Goldman after she said the firm told her she couldn't keep her online brand.
• Now, she's using her Wall Street skills, like capital allocation, to scale her cake business.

This as-told-to is based on a conversation with Allison Sheehan, 26, a former analyst for private wealth at Goldman Sachs and student at Northwestern's Kellogg School of Management, where she's building her baking brand, Alleycat. Business Insider has verified her roles at Goldman and her current school enrollment. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Baking cakes started out as a college hobby — I'd make them for my sorority sisters and, once word got out, the broader Dallas community. When I landed a job in operations at Goldman Sachs in Utah, I stopped baking entirely, though I still longed to build up my cake empire. I had no family, no friends, no nothing in Utah, and was focused on getting transferred to New York.

I eventually got a job in the wealth management unit in New York. It was a part operational, since I was opening accounts and managing money, but also client-facing, which I loved.

As soon as I got to New York, I restarted my baking social media accounts, which had around 500 followers at the time, and announced that I was back in business. Orders picked up, but I didn't have time for all of them, so I capped it at three cakes a week, creating a scarcity model. I sold out weekly for about 6 months before expanding to up to 10 cakes.

That's when I started struggling to fit everything in, but I was getting good traction, making cakes for companies and fashion houses, like Goop. A typical day meant waking up at 5 am to frost a cake, going to the gym, going to work, baking a cake, going to dinner with friends, and going to sleep. I spent all my spare moments invoicing clients or editing videos. In 2023, my friend's boyfriend said I should post under the handle "investment__baker," but I was careful not to mention anything about where I worked or my exact job.

I learned valuable skills at Goldman

Goldman's high-stakes hustle culture has helped me build the brand — I had to be responsive, communicative, and accurate, all skills I use now. I always quickly consolidate my notes and immediately flag any concerns to product developers or suppliers. On the communication front, I'm able to connect people across the supply chain, from technical food scientists to more creative-minded brand designers. And when it comes to accuracy, I'm precise about costs, even on volatile products like cocoa, and margins.

In wealth management, I learned a lot about capital allocation, helping clients balance their portfolios and plan for expenses. But I learned just as much from my own failures.

After I started taking on more orders, I rented a commercial kitchen on the Lower East Side to bake and teach workshops. It solved logistical problems but drained my bank account. Every penny I made from baking went toward rent, and I eventually had to return to my apartment. That was definitely not a good capital allocation strategy, since it almost left me broke.

Goldman gave me an ultimatum

At that point, I knew I needed to go all in on my business and decided to apply to business school. Studying for the GRE while working and running the business was unsustainable.

My health deteriorated, and I broke down at work, having a panic attack and sobbing to my very understanding VP. I went home to Wisconsin for two weeks, shut down all of my social media accounts, and brought my brand to an awful, screeching halt.

Six months later, I reopened the account, with 2,000 fewer followers and almost no DMs. The momentum came back quickly, though, until, boom: Goldman's compliance team called me in and asked me to delete all of my content or leave the firm. They said the word "investment" on my social handles alluded to my job, and I had to delete everything. After finishing my business school interviews a few months later, I un-archived all of the content, got called in again, and quit.

I couldn't waste the five years of time and energy I'd poured into this business.

Goldman is still helping me now

I've scaled back my custom cake business and am focused on building my consumer packaged goods products: dry cake mixes and frosting, like the kind you can scoop out of the jar. I've finished the formulation, secured suppliers, and gotten my nutritional label approved, but I'm still struggling to find a manufacturer.

Small brands have to convince manufacturers they're a worthwhile investment. From their perspective, why spend time onboarding a tiny Instagram baker who could easily fail?

That's where Goldman has come in. Beyond knowing how to build a nice deck and balance a budget, my background at such a prestigious firm lends me credibility. It comes up in conversations, and I'll include it in presentations, since I'm proud to have worked there. The firm is relevant to my online brand, too, since I still post as the investment baker and share investing advice.

I'm making a fraction of my Goldman salary, but I'm fundamentally a creative person. I couldn't spend my life behind a desk. When I started, my goal was to make a cake for a celebrity, which I've done multiple times, including for Brooke Shields. Now, I want to bring home baking back — and revolutionize the grocery aisles.

• Kim Vaccarella, CEO of Bogg, said dupes have cost her business tens of millions.
• Social media has driven the Bogg bag's growth, but also boosted competition and copycats.
• Bogg's unique offerings and customer service aim to outshine cheaper dupes.

Bogg's founder takes each dupe she sees personally.

Kim Vaccarella began making Bogg 15 years ago to be the ultimate beach bag for working moms. She saw an opportunity in the plastic material used for flip-flops — durable and waterproof.

Thus, the Bogg bag was born with its patented design featuring signature holes and a flat bottom, which Bogg says makes it tip-proof.

"My plan was to come up with the idea, patent it, and maybe sell it because I had a career," Vaccarella said. "Once I put my papers in for the patent and started reaching out to a few companies, I was getting a lot of nos."

There were those who said the Bogg bag was a one-time purchase that wouldn't attract repeat customers.

Vaccarella believed in her idea, however, and quit her job in 2018 to run the company full time. It wasn't long after that she realized she had a viral hit on her hands thanks to social media. The power of TikTok and beyond has been a game changer for Bogg. It led the business to $100 million in annual revenue by 2024, Vaccarella said.

However, being the new it-bag came with its hardships. Along with her success came Vaccarella's No. 1 enemy: dupes.

Dupes are products that are similar in appearance or functionality to a higher-end item but sold at a lower price. Bogg bags start at $55 for the smallest size and go up to $100 for the largest. Similar bags in the largest size sell online from retailers like Walmart for less than the small Bogg "bitty bag."

"Social media is kind of that double-edged sword where you're getting a lot of exposure, a lot of new customers, but also, that visibility is introducing new competitors and giving them ideas," Vaccarella told Business Insider.

The viral success and dupes that have come with it have cost Bogg tens of millions of dollars, Vaccarella said.

As dupes become more common, even larger brands like Lululemon have taken action to curb copycats, including suing retailers. To combat the copycats, Vaccarella said she keeps three principles in mind.

Know your audience

Gen Z may be the talk of the town among many retailers, but Vaccarella said that Bogg knows its customer base skews older. Its target shoppers are women ages 18 to 64, but moms over 35 are the brand's "sweet spot," she said.

"She's carrying all the things for a day at the ball field, for the pool, for the beach," Vaccarella said.

Knowing who is willing to pay the premium price for the real thing is a key part of its strategy.

Social media is also a powerful tool driving Bogg's growth. Vaccarella said that it has helped build its customer base to 78% new shoppers, with 22% being returners.

It's still not an ideal mix, Vaccarella said, as companies tend to want to see a higher percentage of return visits. However, she said the numbers are based on Bogg's direct-to-consumer business and don't include its retail partners that carry Bogg products, such as Dick's Sporting Goods, Nordstrom, or Bloomingdale's.

You won't find Bogg bags at your local Hobby Lobby, Five Below, or other discount stores, though.

"Unfortunately, with our pricing, we can't sell in a Walmart," Vaccarella said.

Stand up for your ideas

Vaccarella has taken legal action against retailers whose marketing and products she thinks could confuse consumers. It's not about making a profit, she said, but making up for the "significant" amount of revenue that may have been taken away from Bogg.

"I just want them to stop in most cases," Vaccarella said.

Bogg applied for trade dress, a form of intellectual property protection that protects a product's visual appearance. It's worth the time and money, she said.

It's helped Bogg when it sent out cease-and-desists, followed by further legal action. Suing copycats isn't a "money-making scheme," Vaccarella said.

"Even if it pays the legal fees that I have to pay, just to get somebody to stop, it's worth it," she said.

Offer something the dupes can't

While dupes make certain product types more accessible to those who can't afford to spend $100 on a bag, Vaccarella said some things can't be replicated.

That's how Bogg justifies its premium pricing. You may be able to pick up a similar bag for $20, but Vaccarella said it won't come with the service Bogg offers.

"I'm not going to say every single dupe is a throwaway product, but we see that they break," Vaccarella said. "If your bag breaks, if the button comes off, we're going to send you a new button."

It's not only the repairs that Vaccarella said keep customers loyal, but also the ability to accessorize your bag to make it both functional and stylish. Shoppers may hope to kit out their Bogg dupes with accessories from the real brand, but they don't fit.

It's an opportunity to get them to buy into the Bogg family and leave their dupes behind.

• Clémence de Lutz owns Petitgrain Boulangerie, one of LA's most popular bakeries.
• On opening day in 2024, she sold out of croissants in about an hour. Today, there's often a line out the door.
• She credits her small business's success to social capital, intentional hiring, and radical hospitality.

When Clémence de Lutz answered my phone call at 1 p.m. on a Friday afternoon in late February, she'd already been awake — and working — for 12 hours.

De Lutz owns Petitgrain Boulangerie, a tiny bakery tucked between a delicatessen and a nail salon on Los Angeles' iconic Wilshire Boulevard. Five days a week, her alarm goes off at 12:48 a.m., giving her just enough time to get out of bed, walk the 10 blocks to the shop, and start shaping croissants by 1 a.m. She relieves her 23-year-old daughter, who works the 5 p.m. to 1 a.m. night shift.

Those early hours aren't for show. They're key to good business.

The most foot traffic happens between 8 a.m., when her bakery opens, and 10:30 a.m., she explained: "If we don't have enough things to sell because we shaped too late or they went into the proofer too late, then we lose money."

From 1 a.m. to 3 a.m., she works alone in the kitchen.

"It's my favorite time of day," said the mother of three, "because I just listen to true-crime podcasts."

At 3 a.m., a second baker arrives, followed by three more, staggered at 4 a.m., 5 a.m., and 6 a.m. Front of house clocks in at 7 a.m., and the doors open an hour later. Regulars often line up well before then to secure their favorite pastries, including the most popular item: the plain croissant.

On Fridays, she typically works a half-day and focuses on business development. The Friday we chat is different.

"This week, I'm short-staffed," she told me, stepping out of the kitchen to take the call. "I have a nice, healthy 45 minutes ahead of me. I'm just waiting for things to rise in the proofer."

De Lutz was born in Paris and moved with her family to Washington, D.C., when she was eight. Summers were spent selling ice cream and washing dishes at the inn and restaurant her grandparents owned in the south of France. "My parents would just drop us off for the summer and be like, 'Work for tips,'" she recalled.

She studied film and anthropology at Syracuse University, then moved to Los Angeles with plans to make documentaries. She tried the corporate route first, taking an executive assistant job at Fox, but it didn't last. "I just couldn't find my footing until I went back into food in my early 20s and was like, 'Oh, this is what feels normal,'" she said. "Chaos feels normal."

Turning a cubicle cookie side hustle into a career

While a desk job wasn't a great fit for de Lutz, it led to a side hustle that would change the course of her career. She'd collect cookie orders from coworkers throughout the week and deliver her handmade creations on Fridays. Her cubicle cookie business eventually landed a spot on KCRW's "Good Food," an appearance she says "changed my life." She quit her job, rented a commercial kitchen, and began working as a ghost pastry chef for restaurants. Baking evolved into teaching and consulting. For years, she helped other bakeries build menus and streamline systems, work that also served as real-time education on what it takes to succeed in the industry.

When the opportunity to run her own bakery fell into her lap — a friend she'd consulted for called her up and said, "Hey, I'm retiring, do you want my space?" — she jumped.

Taking over an existing kitchen space in LA typically comes with expensive delays and red tape. In Los Angeles County, she explained, commercial kitchens that sit empty for 90 days or more can trigger a permit reset. So, "when you find an owner who is willing to work with you and close the day before you want to open and just kind of negotiate key money for buying out the equipment, you can never pass that up."

She has lived lean, she said, with no credit card debt or loans, so the risk of opening felt manageable.

"The values I grew up with have very little to do with money. In France, it's not customary to value money or wealth. It's really valuing being a tradesperson, being an expert in your field," she said. "Taking risks was always easy because I had nothing to lose."

Opening day: Selling 300 croissants in 1 hour

Petitgrain opened in May 2024. From the start, demand outpaced production.

Opening day, she made about 300 croissants. They didn't last more than an hour. On day two, she about doubled the number and sold out again.

Since opening, the bakery has drawn steady crowds from Wednesday through Sunday, the days it's open. Today, the operation is close to its ceiling.

"We're pretty maxed out," she said. Her 870-square-foot kitchen, equipped with one double-stack oven and one small proofer, produces 32 "books" of croissants a day. A book yields roughly 24 to 30 croissants, putting the daily volume at 700 to 900. Though the croissant is the top seller, she offers a variety of other pastries, including cinnamon, cardamom, and sausage rolls, as well as cookies, quiche, and scones.

The business worked from the get-go because she understood her baseline costs and built for sustainability. It helped that her landlord was committed to renting to small businesses at below-market rent, she added: "Rent is $4,100 a month, and we knew how much we needed to make to make rent."

Early on, she kept a second job teaching baking classes, but within a couple of months of opening, she sold her share of the cooking school to focus fully on Petitgrain.

De Lutz said Petitgrain's average monthly sales have climbed about 131% from 2024, when she first opened, as the team slowly increased production. Small upgrades, such as undercounter freezers, have helped drive another 20% in growth over the last few months, she added.

Her secret sauce: Social capital and 'radical hospitality'

Having ripped open one of her flaky masterpieces myself, it's hard to agree with de Lutz when she claims her croissants are "overhyped."

"I'm not kidding," she said when I chuckled. "I wake up every morning at 12:48 a.m., and my first thought is: 'How can I live up to this hype?' It's a lot of expectations, but it's sort of what drives you to be excellent."

A big part of her immediate success, she believes, was timing. When Petitgrain opened, interest in croissants surged across Los Angeles.

"Everybody all of a sudden wanted to write about croissants," she said. "It was just really lucky timing."

Less visible, and perhaps more impactful than trends, however, were the relationships she'd built from being in the food and hospitality community for so long. Social capital, she said, is "the most important part of my story." While it's hard to quantify, "I think that has the biggest return."

Her hiring model and teambuilding strategies are unique. At Petitgrain, she practices what she calls "both-of-house" training: everyone in back of house learns front of house, and everyone in front of house works at least one back-of-house shift weekly.

That way, "everyone understands the product better and has respect for their team members," she said. She also rejects a traditional hierarchy and instead aims for shared accountability, anchored in wages.

"My business model is based on generous hospitality," she said. "Everybody needs to earn a living wage, not like $20 an hour. Everyone here, with tips, is making at minimum $30 an hour. I don't want anyone to have to work a second job."

To make that work, she runs a tip pool, and she protects it. She refuses to hire ahead of revenue.

"Because the tip pool is such an important part of everybody's paycheck, I'm really cautious," she said. "I cannot bring in a new team member until we grow sales between 6 and 8% at a time because, if I add an extra person before revenue grows, everybody's tip pool gets diluted."

As of early 2026, she has a team of 13 bakers and baristas. When she does hire, credentials aren't her priority. She's looking for kindness, hustle, and curiosity.

"I don't care if you went to culinary school. I don't care if you worked at a Michelin-star restaurant," she said. "Honestly, it's not hard to make a croissant. It really isn't. But if you are curious, if you are humble, if you work hard, you'll figure it out. And 99% of the time, that yields a really great team."

Underneath all of it is what she calls her core belief system: radical generosity, expressed through radical hospitality.

"There's never a time when I have been radically generous and regretted it," she said.