As Donaldson built his empire, he leaned hard on that ideal. It helps that the building he leases in New Orleans was once a true public market — so beloved that, as the city’s other public markets were being demolished in the 1930s, the neighborhood signed a petition to save it. (Eventually, by the early 2000s, it was a restaurant, serving Chinese food and sandwiches.)

After Katrina, the building sat empty, regal but slowly deteriorating. The city spent more than $3 million to restore it, then sought a tenant who might revive its original role. Donaldson’s company, Bayou Secret LLC, proposed to do just that: He would install 15 independently operated food stalls that would sell prepared and fresh food. He would emphasize seafood, vegetables, meats, and fruits — groceries that locals had, in a recent survey, indicated as most desired.

The St. Roch neighborhood was named for the patron saint of miraculous cures after it was largely spared from an 1870s epidemic of yellow fever. Donaldson has used this fact as part of a dubious but inspiring origin story: The neighborhood, in the midst of the epidemic, launched a months-long prayer vigil; when it worked, “the grateful community enclosed the Market and gave it its official name,” according to an early version of a company website, which was included in a set of court filings. Donaldson’s food halls were supposed to continue the community spirit of the original market, “a place where neighbors become friends and break bread together.”

When the food hall opened in April 2015, it was an exemplar of the genre: tattooed young chefs, some first-generation immigrants, serving iced trays of Gulf-fresh oysters, fresh-baked pastries, fried chicken sandwiches, thick and spicy Nigerian stews. The space was sleek white, bright with sunlight, clean and orderly, with rows of iron columns recalling the noble past of the place — “classic, yet design-forward,” as the company’s marketing materials say. The business’ logo preserved its past, too: It repeats the elegant typeface that, in a sign above the entranceway, has displayed the building’s name since at least 1964.

From day one, the market was a hit. Diners began to flock to this stretch of New Orleans, which was majority black but quickly gentrifying. Soon after the business opened, vandals sprayed, in blue paint, the phrase “YUPPY = BAD” on its exterior. The business is really a public-private partnership; the city owns the building and offers a discounted lease, which, in its terms, requires that fresh foods be sold as a service to the community. But two years after opening, the market jettisoned its one grocery stall. (When I visited this spring, a half-dozen fish fillets were on ice, tucked in a corner next to the seafood stall; the food hall also hosts an outdoor farmers market three days a week.) In New Orleans, St. Roch now is a famous symbol of gentrification and its discontents: Some say the only service it has provided is raising the value of nearby homes.

Less well known, though, is the furor that roiled inside the market. I spoke to several current and former vendors and employees, most of whom wanted to remain anonymous due to nondisclosure agreements or so as not to ruffle feathers within a tight-knit culinary community. There were many stories about Donaldson’s seemingly imperious behavior — he allegedly favored certain vendors and seemed to assert his will over others. In at least one instance, an employee claims they were fired soon after filing a human resources complaint. Turnover was nearly constant.

For six months, Melissa Martin ran the Curious Oyster Co., one of the market’s first stalls. She said the entire concept of the food hall had been misrepresented to her: She thought St. Roch would be something like an artisanal Whole Foods, where a few vendors — herself included — would serve prepared food among the fresh-food stalls. Then she found herself next to not a fishmonger, but a competing seafood stall. She recalls that Donaldson demanded she remove crab cakes from her menu when the other stall began serving the same dish.

“My business failed,” Martin said. “It wasn’t because I didn’t know how to run a business — it was because there was no way to run a business there.” She said she made around a quarter-million dollars in sales over six months, yet wound up losing $50,000.

Martin’s oysters were few people’s idea of breakfast food, but the terms of the lease required that she, like all vendors, open daily by 9 a.m., which jacked up labor costs. (Some experienced restaurateurs declined to join the food hall, recognizing that problem; multiple vendors who did open indicated that staying afloat required logging 14-hour days themselves.)

The other problem was rent, which was calculated based on a complex formula and depended on how much each vendor sold. On prepared foods — which quickly became the bulk of the food hall’s business — Donaldson’s company was raking in as much as 30 percent. (The current structure, according to Donaldson, is a flat rate of around 30 percent of sales for all vendors.) Even if they made no sales, stalls paid at minimum $4,500 each month — which meant that Bayou Secret was taking in at least $49,500. “The amount of money they took from us — it’s just insane,” Martin said.

Donaldson was paying just $3,500 each month to lease the 6,800-square-foot city-owned building. (The lease has subsequently increased to $5,000 and will reach $6,500 before the end of the 10-year agreement with the city.) Alcohol, typically among the highest-margin items sold at a restaurant, was (and is) available only at the food hall’s bar, the Mayhew. It is owned by Donaldson, too.