I Gave Him A Ladder He Burned The Bridge
When the place finally took off, he didn't hesitate to kick me to the curb.
My wife and I did all the heavy lifting in that kitchen. You were barely around.
You invested six hundred thousand, and I'm paying you six hundred thousand back.
"We're square."
1
Rick Flynn placed six hundred thousand dollars in cash on the table in front of me.
I stared at the thick stacks, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest.
I genuinely didnt understand what he was trying to say.
Rick slid the money toward me with a casual push.
"That's your original investment, Dean. Your principal. I'm handing it back."
I managed a tight smile. "What is this supposed to mean?"
"Why the sudden urge to return my capital?"
Rick's face was dead serious.
"The Millhouse Bistro is fine with just me and my wife running it now."
"Im returning the six hundred thousand you put in."
"You won't need to come in anymore."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I froze.
Rick and his wife were trying to push me out? To cut me off entirely?
"I... won't need to come in anymore."
"You're telling me Im being kicked out?"
I pointed a finger at my own chest, asking the question again, needing to hear the absurdity confirmed.
Rick didnt flinch.
He spoke without a trace of hesitation. "For the past year, my wife and I have been busting our asses keeping that Bistro running."
"You haven't managed a thing."
"What claim do you even have on the place?"
I had poured six hundred thousand dollars and over a year of my life into launching this "Millhouse Bistro."
We built it from zero to generating over thirty thousand dollars in monthly revenue.
And just as we were about to hit the real money, Rick was telling me I had no claim, no stake, nothing.
I honestly never thought Rick would do something like this.
Rick and I were high school friends.
After graduation, I went North for college.
Rick chose to dive straight into the working world.
We always kept in touch, meeting up for drinks and catching up every winter and summer break.
He got married during my sophomore year.
He took his wife's familys savings, their nest egg, and invested in a franchise that turned out to be a scam.
He didn't just lose the money; he racked up over two hundred thousand dollars in debt.
To pay it off, Rick had to work a day job and run a late-night street taco stand after hours.
His wife was out of work.
They had two infants at home, burning through formula and diapers.
His wife was threatening divorce daily.
Over drinks, Rick confessed, tears streaming down his face, about the crushing pressure.
He said every morning he woke up, all he saw was moneyor the lack of itsuffocating him.
Hed even considered driving his truck off the Starlight Bridge and ending it all.
He was a friend of two decades.
I couldnt stand by and watch him do something reckless.
I decided to pull him out of the hole.
But I never, not in my wildest dreams, imagined that after I pulled him from the fire, hed turn around and stab me in the back.
"Rick, are you drunk? Or did you hit your head?"
"Are you even listening to yourself?"
"Who the hell invested in this Bistro in the first place?"
I jabbed a finger toward him, my voice rising.
Rick gave me a cold, dismissive glance.
"You invested six hundred thousand. Im giving you six hundred thousand back."
"I'm not stealing anything from you."
"I think you're the one who needs his head checked."
2
I actually laughed, the sound dry and humorless.
The entire concept, the business model, and the initial capital for The Millhouse Bistro came from me.
A year ago, when I was trying to figure out how to rescue Rick, I asked him what he knew how to do.
He said all he knew was food service, and not much else.
I didn't hesitate. I called a college roommate whose family ran a successful restaurant chain with four locations in their city.
I negotiated hard and eventually paid a hundred thousand dollars just for the rights to use their signature recipes.
I took Rick up there, and we spent over a week learning everythingfrom the kitchens flow to the overall operational model. My roommate held nothing back.
When we came back, we budgeted the cost for a similar farm-to-table concept: it came out to roughly six hundred thousand.
Rick was broke. He offered to work for me, but I refused.
The whole point of this venture was to get him back on his feet.
Just being my employee wouldn't solve his long-term crisis.
"Ill put up the money. You put in the labor."
"We split the profits fifty-fifty. If we lose money, its all on me."
Because I still had my family's businesses to manage, I couldn't dedicate my full attention to The Millhouse Bistro.
The place needed a full-time, dedicated captain.
So, Rick and I had a verbal agreement: I cover the capital, he covers the operations, and we split the returns evenly.
3
And now, barely a year into the operation, Rick and his wife were desperate to cut me out.
"Rick!"
"Who was it that dragged you out of foreclosure and debt?"
"Do you have any conscience left at all?"
I couldn't help but yell at him.
Rick looked up at me, a sneer twisting his lips.
"Were talking business here, Dean. Leave the emotional crap out of it."
"You keep going on about saving me. If youre so charitable, why are you fighting me over this now?"
"You put in six hundred thousand. Im returning six hundred thousand."
"What's the problem?"
Rick was completely nonchalant, acting as if I was the one being unreasonable.
He clearly thought I was fighting over a few petty dollars.
The money wasn't the issue. I had my own capital.
The problem was the sudden, brutal, and unjust dismissal.
Since Rick wanted to "talk business," I decided to lay out the terms, down to the last penny.
"I put six hundred thousand into this for a year, and youre giving me six hundred thousand back a year later?"
"Do you think were playing house here?"
I lowered my voice, making it dangerously calm. My six hundred thousand would have at least earned some interest in a bank for a year.
And right now, the Bistro was killing itpacked every night.
The daily cash flow was consistently around ten thousand dollars.
After factoring in all overheads, the net profit for the year should have been well over 0-0.4 million.
Rick, meanwhile, was pretending the profit didn't exist, simply returning the principal and having the nerve to claim I wasn't losing anything.
"Rick and I handle every single detail in that Bistro, big or small."
"You haven't lifted a finger. You just wrote a check for six hundred thousand."
"We're giving you back the six hundred thousand. What's wrong with that?"
Monica, Ricks wife, chimed in, echoing his exact defense.
Seeing the look of ungrateful arrogance on Monicas face, a cold rage burned inside me.
Just a year ago, both of them treated me like a godsend.
Now that they were making money, they were baring their teeth.
I managed to control my fury and spoke through clenched teeth.
"If I hadn't lifted a finger, how do you think this whole damn operation got off the ground?"
Monica curled her lip and let out a cold laugh.
"You mean all those times you brought your friends to eat and drink on the house, running up hundreds in tabs? Did you ever pay?"
"You eat for free, fine. But anyone who dropped your name got a minimum twenty percent discount. Sometimes you comped the entire meal."
"Thats your 'effort'! Anyone can freeload."
Rick and Monica, tag-teaming the attack, painted me as a greedy parasite who only showed up to eat free meals.
4
"Why do you think I was hosting those dinners?"
"It was to bring in customers, to build a clientele!"
"Tell me which of those people hasn't become a regular, a big spender at The Millhouse Bistro?"
When the Bistro first opened, business was dead.
Rick was in debt, and everyone in his network avoided him like the plague.
It was impossible for him to drum up business using his own contacts.
I had to leverage my own network, hosting regular events to draw people in.
In the restaurant business, you live and die by repeat customers and good will.
Maintaining that requires favors and good-faith hospitality.
But in Rick and Monicas eyes, this was nothing but me taking advantage.
"Stop trying to flatter yourself."
"They became customers because the Bistros food is good. The menu is great."
"If the taste was bad, who would keep coming back?"
I nearly choked on my laughter.
"The menu is great? The taste is good?"
"Who do you think found the recipes and the people to teach you?"
"If I hadn't bent over backwards sourcing ingredients and recipes, where would your signature dishes be?"
Every single profitable dish on that menu had been acquired and curated by me.
The two signature dishes from my college roommate alone cost me a hundred thousand.
To cater to the local American market, I spent another fifty thousand buying the rights to several regional specialty dishes.
Sourcing these recipes was a nightmare.
Unlike my college roommate, who lived states away, these local chefs were direct competitors.
By learning their techniques, I was taking food off their tables.
I had to spend heavily, trading in money and favors, practically begging to learn those techniques.
Thats where their "great menu" came from.
"Psh!"
Monica exploded when I brought it up.
She pointed a finger directly at my face and shrieked.
"And you have the nerve to bring up sourcing the ingredients?"
"How many kickbacks did you take in the process, huh?"
"The chicken market rate is under five dollars a pound. The chicken you sourced cost us twenty-six dollars a pound!"
"Five times the price!"
"And the fish, the mushrooms, the produceevery single item was several times more expensive than the market rate!"
At that point, I couldnt be bothered to say another word.
Genuine, pasture-raised, organic, heritage poultrythe kind we usedwas in such high demand that people waited months for it.
Rick and I had gone through hell to secure those contracts.
They knew this.
Now they were just picking fights. This was undeniable proof that Rick and Monica were absolutely determined to cut me out.
Anything I said would be useless.
"Fine. Im out."
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