SIDNEY FRANK | Marian | energy drink | Golf

Today he's in Rancho Santa Fe, ensconced in a sprawling studio apartment that has been grafted onto the even more sprawling home he shares with his wife, Marian. The apartment includes a bed where Frank spends most of his time and conducts most of his business. The apartment is also home to an expansive kitchen that's staffed by four full-time chefs. Four. They share breakfast, lunch, and dinner duties, and every night, Frank has one of them leave him some freshly roasted peppers for an evening snack. That's also the kind of thing you do when you're a billionaire.

But back to the cat. "The ragdoll is the most loving type of cat there is," Frank says, his voice rumbling. "Honey will just go to sleep on my chest. I read up on the ragdoll. The male is much more loving than the female, so we got a male. The ragdoll's so smooth that, when you pet it, you want to put your face next to it. So, anyway, we're all set on euros."

Euros? Oh, right. Euros. You know what, though? Who cares about euros? Frank should be done by now. Here's a guy who grew up so poor, his mother had to make bedsheets out of potato sacks. Here's a guy who built a fortune solely on the power of his personality. So why doesn't he just hire another set of golfers and watch two rounds a day instead of working all afternoon on his new magazine, a new line of wines, a high-end tequila, an energy drink, and so on? Or why not just put his face next to Honey and take a nap? The reason is simple, really. As anyone who knows him will tell you, for all the jets and the homes and the golf courses and the chefs, Sidney Frank is just not the retiring type. "I've reached the apex of success," Frank says. "I've done it. But I like to keep busy. So why not keep working?"

---