From The Grotto to The Grill: How a Playmate-Powered Vegan Taco Chain Suddenly Went Up in Smoke

When Jessica Hall invested in Sugar Taco in 2018, she thought she was becoming more than a part-owner of a vegan Mexican restaurant — she thought she was joining a social movement.

The restaurant’s produce, she was told, would be organic, ethically and locally sourced from independent farms in Southern California. It would be eco-conscious and sustainable. Packaging would remind customers that “growing feed crops for livestock consumes 56 percent of water in the U.S.” Deliveries would include biodegradable wooden utensils instead of plastic. Leftover food would be composted, not thrown out. The decor would be bought secondhand to cut down on waste. Trees would be planted to offset its carbon output. Animal rights would be respected, with a portion of the proceeds going to Los Angeles-based rescue shelters.

Above all, Sugar Taco would be feminist — or at least female. The founders — Jayde Nicole and Brittany Littleton — were building an investment group made up entirely of women. And not just any women: a sorority of social media-savvy models, wellness influencers and reality TV alums — a surprising number of whom had spent time on the pages of Playboy.

Hall, for instance, graced the magazine in 2005. Nicole was 2008 Playmate of the Year, and she promoted the restaurant to her sister-investors as a kind of post-Hugh Hefner, women-led utopia — less grotto, more Lean In — where the mission was female empowerment, the message was veganism, and the vibe was always photo-ready.

“For every kids meal sold, they were going to feed three kids in Mexico,” Hall says of the investment pitch. “I had just become a mom, so I was like, ‘This is amazing.’ ”

It wasn’t.

Over the next several years, investors like Hall found themselves embroiled in a food-fight fiasco so chaotic, it would have reduced Gordon Ramsay to tears. There were claims of roach-infested pantries, dangerously dilapidated gas lines, an industrial blade turning up in a customer’s meal, managerial neglect and odd financial missteps. What began as a glossy, girl-powered brand with rescue dogs and biodegradable forks had, by the end, devolved into a bitter social media melee, with Playmate pitted against Playmate and a restaurant that was anything but Instagrammable.

“They purported to be business leaders and entrepreneurs,” says another investor, Merissa Underwood, Miss Montana in 2020. “It just goes to show that if you can create a specific image online, people will believe that.”

***

Hall, now 41, and Nicole, 39, first became friends in the late 2000s while both were still wearing bunny ears and hanging out at the Mansion.

At that time — the pre-#MeToo, pre-male gaze era — there still lingered a certain cachet to being a Playboy Playmate, and Nicole (whose real name is Jayde Nicole Gilette-Ivany but who goes by the more media-friendly Jayde Nicole) made the most of it. She landed several appearances on MTV’s The Hills and even dated one of its stars, Brody Jenner. Hall, who back then was a regular presence on the Playboy website and had a gig hosting a show on its satellite radio channel, found Nicole irresistible, as did a lot of other Playmates.

“She was really tall and beautiful — she had a presence about her that drew you in,” says Sara Jean Underwood, the 2007 Playmate of the Year and a Sugar Taco investor. According to Underwood, when Nicole went out, she was the “leader of the pack.”

Nicole’s backstory is classic centerfold hagiography: Born and raised in a tiny town northeast of Toronto, she was plucked out of a concert crowd by two modeling scouts. On a shoot in the Florida Keys, a photographer suggested she submit to Playboy. Just before her 21st birthday, she was anointed Miss January 2007, then, a year later, made Playmate of the Year and was given a room of her own in Hef’s mansion (the two never dated).

After closing her career as a centerfold, Nicole evolved into a nightlife impresario (a trade she had clearly long been interested in; before Playboy, she’d studied hotel management at George Brown College). In 2012, she opened her first hotspot, AV Nightclub in West Hollywood. By all outward appearances, it was a roaring success. Star magazine hosted its “All-Hollywood” party there, and Lindsay Lohan often showed up with swarms of paparazzi. Two more clubs followed, one in Scottsdale, Arizona, and one in San Diego, and Toca Madera, a Mexican restaurant in West Hollywood that closed earlier this year.

In 2018, Nicole began reaching out to her vast network of friends — models, influencers, former Playmates — to pitch them Sugar Taco, a restaurant concept that merged her hospitality expertise with her interest in plant-based politics. She found an instant ally in a former assistant, Littleton, who had since blossomed into a vegan influencer — “herbalist,” is how she describes herself on Instagram — with a crunchy online feed featuring earthy motherhood helpers like recipes for oat, flaxseed and nut butter “lactation bites” and organic hemp “pads” for diapers. Nicole and Littleton became founding partners in the restaurant venture, and the two set out to woo investors.

It didn’t take long. Hall invested $20,000 for a single percentage point of equity. Other former Playmates followed, including Jessica Burciaga (Miss February 2009) and Tiffany Toth (Miss September 2011). Public corporate documents reviewed by THR show a star-studded roster of investors beyond just the pages of Playboy, including Clueless actress and animal rights activist Alicia Silverstone, onetime Nickelodeon star Daniella Monet, professional surfer Tia Blanco and The Bachelor‘s Kelley Flanagan.

“I didn’t know anything about the restaurant industry,” Toth admits. “I just wanted to be part of something I could feel good about.”

The first Sugar Taco opened in spring 2019 at the corner of Melrose Avenue and Alta Vista Boulevard, and it looked more like an influencer photo backdrop than a traditional Mexican restaurant. Walls were painted in funky neons and decorated with faux ivy. Tables and chairs were a mix of reclaimed wood and salvaged finds. Vibrant Dia de Los Muertos murals adorned the walls. It worked. Sugar Taco was a hit, even through COVID. Turned out a quick-service, delivery-friendly, vegan taco shop was exactly the kind of eatery that health-conscious, socially distanced Angelenos craved during the pandemic.

Thanks to Nicole’s considerable social media skills — and the online reach of her Insta-savvy backers, with a combined following of millions — Sugar Taco looked to the outside world like a thriving restaurant. More importantly, investors were happy, at least at first. They started receiving their initial disbursement payments of $1,125. Plans were drawn for a second location in Sherman Oaks.

What investors didn’t see, however, were the early warning signs of impending chaos. “We had no management,” a former Sugar Taco employee tells THR. Nicole was “never there.” Littleton and newly hired Sugar Taco head chef Alan Campos — former regional executive chef for Neiman Marcus, where he oversaw the plant-focused menu at the department store’s cafés — had been attentive when the restaurant first opened. But after a few months, they stopped coming in regularly. Kitchen and front-of-house employees would show up for shifts, says the former employee, and manage themselves.

None of this showed up on Instagram’s feed — or in Nicole’s pitch to new investors, during which she continued to project an image of shrewd female entrepreneurship. “I was like, ‘Wow, that’s a lot of growth, especially in that situation,’ ” recalls podcaster and vegan activist Jamie Campo, who ended up investing in Sugar Taco’s expansion to Sherman Oaks. “I thought they must be doing great.”

When the Sherman Oaks branch opened in early 2021, it was a star-studded affair — well, at least Silverstone showed up. “Delicious food, great service and an amazing way to support small businesses!” the actress gushed on Instagram. “Trust me … you’ll thank me later.”

But as Sugar Taco expanded, the investment payouts slowed. At first, nobody was too alarmed — growing pains and all — but when they did begin inquiring about money, Nicole and Littleton would turn frosty. “Every time we asked questions, we were told, ‘Most investors don’t care to know that. Most investors don’t get what you are asking for,’ ” remembers Toth. “We were always met with some sort of weird hostility.”

Sources close to Sugar Taco’s leadership adamantly deny any mismanagement, pointing out that Sugar Taco remained open while hundreds of restaurants in L.A. closed during the pandemic. They also note that disbursements are not a given. They say that there is no schedule or guarantee that investors will receive them at all, or in any specific amount or timeline.

Still, as investors would learn, the Sherman Oaks location appeared to be even more dysfunctional than the West Hollywood branch. “It was revolting,” says a former employee who shared photos with THR documenting the unsanitary conditions. The pictures show a sink covered in ants; rat droppings in the kitchen and on some of the produce; tomatoes and avocados that had been partially eaten by vermin; and a gas line with its protective sheathing dangerously frayed.

One customer found a dead spider in a protein bowl, another was served a cockroach with his plate of nachos.

When workers complained, Nicole and Littleton would promise to address the problems but, according to staffers, never followed through. “Jayde and Brittany were nowhere to be found,” says Ash Pavesio, a former front-of-the-house employee.

By September 2022, some employees got so fed up with the work conditions, they went on strike — on Labor Day, no less. They were fired the next day, inspiring some remaining employees to quit in protest. The striking employees already had filed complaints with the Department of Public Health. A food inspection conducted three days after the mass firings revealed 11 critical health code violations, several involving roaches, dead and living. The restaurant’s permit was suspended until a fumigation could be completed. During the delousing, the restaurant’s front windows were papered over so that the mandatory public health closure notice was not visible to the public (or investors). When the paper came down and the kitchen reopened, Sugar Taco’s health grade sign had been downgraded from an A to a B.

But by far the most troubling Sugar Taco incident didn’t occur in any of the chain’s restaurants; it happened at the DGA building on Sunset Boulevard, where Sugar Taco had been hired in September 2022 to cater the premiere of Peeled, a vegan cooking competition show. One of the party’s attendees suffered “significant injuries” after biting into a burrito that contained “a large industrial blade,” according to a lawsuit filed in 2023 in Los Angeles Superior Court by the wounded diner.

***

Investors were never made aware of the industrial blade accident, nor of the labor and health problems, and there was certainly no indication that Nicole or Littleton were troubled by any business woes. On the contrary, the founders lived well. Both purchased homes — Nicole’s a desert hideaway in Indio, California, Littleton’s a Victorian farmhouse in South Carolina. In the media, Nicole made it sound as if Sugar Taco was a girl boss’ dream job. “Sometimes we hold [meetings] at the beach in bikinis,” she told fitness model Lori Harder on an episode of her self-help podcast, Earn Your Happy. “Sometimes we go for cocktails at a restaurant.”

For investors, though, the experience was hardly fun in the sun. While Sherman Oaks backers received some disbursements, in payments of $1,142.86, in the months immediately following the restaurant’s opening, the checks soon stopped without explanation. “The money started slowing down,” Sara Jean Underwood recalls. “I would reach out to Jayde personally and be like, ‘Hey, what’s going on? When are we going to get another disbursement?’ She would say, ‘It’s COVID.’ ”

To the surprise of some investors, Nicole and Littleton opened their third Sugar Taco in Long Beach in summer 2023. The unveiling was a red carpet affair, with an all-female mariachi band for entertainment. “The fact that so many influencers were in this project made me feel secure,” says Claire Luken, a French immigrant in San Diego who invested $20,000 in the Long Beach restaurant and another $20,000 in each of the other two locations. As with the other investors, she received a few early disbursements and was surprised when the money suddenly dried up.

“[The founders] were hyper-communicative when I decided to invest,” Merissa Underwood, the former Miss Montana, remembers. “But afterward, the communication really died.”

Sources close to Sugar Taco management claim the owners were transparent with financial documentation. Nevertheless, investors remained frustrated and began communicating with one another, sharing information about the restaurant and digging into Littleton’s and Nicole’s pasts. They were unnerved by what they found.

Nicole, for one, had a history of being accused of unsavory business practices. In 2014, she and then-boyfriend Tosh Berman had been among several people sued in L.A. Superior Court by investors in her first West Hollywood hospitality venture, the seemingly successful AV Nightclub. The complaint, reviewed by THR, called them “hustlers” and “swindlers” who allegedly used the nightclub’s finances “as their own personal piggybank.” Ultimately, an arbiter found that AV’s bookkeeping left something to be desired but that there wasn’t enough evidence to find Nicole, her boyfriend or the other co-defendants liable.

Littleton, meanwhile, had been embroiled in an animal rescue lawsuit. In 2020, a nonprofit firm sued her on behalf of Elliot Haas, a homeless man whose dog was taken off the street and given to Littleton’s Little Love Rescue for rehabilitation (an L.A. Superior Court judge ruled that Littleton should return the dog; she’s still appealing the case). Around the same time, the California Attorney General ordered Little Love Rescue to cease operations over concerns regarding its fundraising efforts (sources close to Littleton claim those charges were baseless).

Armed with all that information, investors from all three locations banded together to confront Nicole and Littleton. In a group text, Toth, taking the lead, requested a meeting to go over Sugar Taco’s finances. Nicole responded, “Hey tiff! I will text you off this chain,” then deleted the chat group.

“Tiff” never got that follow-up text. Several days later, Nicole sent a lengthy text to all investors, in a newly formed group chat, addressing their litany of concerns. The employees who went on strike were lazy, irresponsible liars, Nicole wrote. Sherman Oaks had a vermin problem because employees “did not want to preform [sic] the cleaning duties asked of them.” Sugar Taco didn’t have a profit and loss statement because “i am aware of ever [sic] sales number and payment we make so i [sic] don’t have the need for them.”

She blamed the restaurant’s struggles on “crazy customers, violent houseless people that come in.” The company’s finances weren’t in order because of issues with the previous accountant. She defended opening a third Sugar Taco location because it “actually helps the other locations tremendously. … It creates more buying power for discounts on food and supplies, it helps share the cost of marketing and even gets us discounts on insurance and dishwasher rentals,” she went on.

“I work 24/7,” she texted her investors. “I do not date. I don’t go out to dinner or movies with friends, I don’t go to the gym, I barely leave my house, because I am working.”

Unsatisfied with Nicole’s response, several investors retained legal counsel and, in September 2023, shortly after the Long Beach branch opened, sent a demand letter to Nicole and Littleton seeking the company’s bank and credit card statements. A review of those documents by THR show Sugar Taco frequently made purchases at retail supermarkets such as Ralphs, Pavilions, Whole Foods and even the comically expensive Erewhon and used such delivery services as Instacart and Uber Eats. Nicole defended the practice to investors, writing that Instacart was helpful for restocking minor items and that Sugar Taco mainly bought its produce from wholesalers, including Nature’s Produce (a company, incidentally, that sued Sugar Taco in December 2023 for $19,904.80 in unpaid bills; Sugar Taco paid the balance and the case was dropped). Sources close to Sugar Taco management claim that purchasing from supermarket chains is not an unusual practice in the restaurant business.

A THR review of the documents identifies money from Sugar Taco bank accounts was used to fly Nicole’s mother to Palm Springs. Nicole justified the expense to investors by claiming her mom had been helping keep the company’s books, even though Sugar Taco had contracted a third-party accounting firm.

Investors also point out that the documents show that Littleton and Nicole used the company’s American Express card for personal expenses, such as Nicole’s trip to attend Littleton’s wedding. In February 2023, a $1,375.96 airline ticket purchase and $293.23 worth of Airbnb rentals in Mexico were charged to the AmEx card used for Sugar Taco’s Long Beach location. The timing seemed curious. The following month, Littleton got married to Campos, Sugar Taco’s head chef, in a cave outside the Mexican resort town of Tulum. In an Instagram photo posing with the bride (since deleted), Nicole wrote, “Always in a business mind, even when we are having fun.” (Sources close to Sugar Taco management say this was a mistake by an assistant and the sums were repaid when the error was discovered.)

In all, Nicole and Littleton raised untold millions for six different businesses — three Sugar Taco locations; The Plant Butchers, a vegan “butcher shop” in Long Beach; The Donut Room, a vegan donut shop; and Azucar (Spanish for “sugar”), a canned tequila cocktail brand.

All Sugar Taco restaurants are now shuttered, including the original Sugar Taco, which closed in April. The Plant Butchers also shut down this year, while The Donut Room and booze brand never materialized.

“When I asked [Nicole] for the money back, her response was, ‘Are you having financial issues?’ ” recalls Adam Weitsman, a billionaire serial investor who sunk $300,000 into Azucar. He eventually took control of the tequila brand and — who knows? — it may someday find its way to shelves. But Sugar Taco investors are not likely to get much of their money back, at least not without a lawsuit — and the math for launching legal action doesn’t really add up. Most invested somewhere between $20,000 and $60,000, and a protracted legal battle would very likely cost more than they put in.

“To think that I poured my money into their hands, when I have a family myself,” laments Luken, who says she was so distressed from the experience that she has moved her family from San Diego to Mexico. “I could have used this money for travels or for my daughter’s college. It made me really depressed. I started to have nightmares about it.”

Some of the investors blame themselves for not performing their due diligence on Nicole and Littleton until too late, when the restaurants were already in trouble. “I wish that I would’ve never allowed them to utilize my name and my likeness,” says Monet, the former Nickelodeon star. “I didn’t know them well. I shouldn’t have trusted them.”

Some of the women who invested in Sugar Taco because they wanted to become female entrepreneurs were so turned off by the experience, they’ve given up on the whole notion of entrepreneurship. “I feel so stupid for [investing], especially when my husband was like, ‘I don’t know if you should invest in this,’ ” says Sugar Taco investor Ivette Saucedo, a reality star turned influencer. “It hurt me. It hurt my ego.”

What stings most for many of them isn’t just the money lost or the brand’s collapse — it’s the betrayal of what Sugar Taco claimed to stand for. “I know restaurants are probably not a very smart investment,” Sara Jean Underwood says. “I took the chance anyway because the mission was so appealing to me.”

It wasn’t just about tacos; it was about changing the world, one biodegradable spoon at a time. But the women who signed up for sisterhood, fighting against climate change and saving animals instead got ghosted and gaslit and lost tens of thousands of dollars.

As for the founders themselves — neither of whom would speak on the record for this article — they’ve been keeping a low profile.

Littleton not only changed her last name when she married Campos in that cave near Tulum, she changed her first name, too. She is now Nia Gatica Campos, presumably living in her crunchy homestead in rural South Carolina.

Nicole sold her home in Indio and decamped for parts unknown. Like Littleton, she too has undergone a bit of an identity transformation. In March, she erased all photos and personal details from her Instagram account, briefly turning the feed over to an AI avatar named Nicola Bianchi. “Greek-Italian muse,” her new bio read. “Model & artist. Exploring the world’s beauty.”

These days, though, her Insta is completely blank, less influencer, more enigma.

This story appeared in the June 18 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. Click here to subscribe.