A Challenging Lunch

Masayoshi Son, Mark Zuckerberg and the bison. An extract

Alok Sama

Masa’s dining room was as enchanting at night as it was at lunch time. The illuminated interior Japanese garden on one side and the twinkling lights of ships on Tokyo Bay on the other provided surreal bookends for the dining space.

When Zuckerberg walked in, I had the impression of being in the presence of a Roman emperor. Was it his erect bearing, the stillness, or the patrician aura? Given his known man-crush on Augustus Caesar—he named his son August—this was likely not an accident. Zuckerberg, sporting his trademark gray Brunello Cucinelli fitted T-shirt and blue jeans, was another emperor with few clothes. Zuckerberg advocates a simplified wardrobe that “limits the time spent on making frivolous decisions.” He is silent on how we should use those precious saved minutes—perhaps polishing our Facebook profile, maybe curating our Instagram feed? Had it been intentional, Cicero himself would have applauded this monumental irony.

Zuckerberg was accompanied by Dan Rose, then Facebook’s head of corporate development, whom Nikesh seemed to know.

As we exchanged pleasantries, it became obvious that the Zuckerberg of The Social Network was an unfair caricature. Or maybe he’d come a long way since. Zuckerberg was anything but brooding. After introductions, he asked about my background. His black eyes bored directly into mine as he listened, exhibiting a politician’s talent for making you feel, in the moment, as if you were the most important person in the world. It reminded me of my sole encounter with President Clinton at a Morgan Stanley event in Boca Raton in January 2001. As with Bill, you knew Zuck’s love was an illusion, but you were seduced regardless. This was a man comfortable in his own skin, speaking with Masa as an equal despite being half his age. It was impressive. If Zuckerberg had an executive coach, I wanted their phone number.

Masa invited Zuckerberg to sit directly across from him, on this occasion Masa having his back to the open area facing the garden. Fair enough, Dr. Evil has enemies. Nikesh and I sat on either side of Masa.

Kato-san materialized. He was seated on his knees, at the head of the table, holding an iPad mini in both his hands. I blinked to make sure, but he was accompanied by a doppelgänger, iPad mini in his hands, the two of them like tenors holding song books, about to break into a duet. Upon closer examination, Kato-san’s comrade sported a debonair pencil Mustache and had a vaguely sinister air about him. If Kato-san read Spinoza, his apprentice looked like he favored Edgar Allan Poe.

“Kato-san,” said Masa, “will read out the names of dishes. All the dishes are small bowls. If you want the dish, please raise your hand. Have as many as you want, but usually six or