Does that fucking idiot even think? Sounds like they didnt plan very well, and also didnt do their research about starting a business well enough either...thats too bad.
Running a restaurant is roughly 10% about the food. There are many very successful places with pretty average, or even kinda bad food, and there are places I've seen come and go in less than 6 months that had some of the best food I've ever tasted. If you don't know how to run a business, having good food will not save you. The person who put the first month's rent down should have been more interested in their business plan than Ivy's ability to use a frying pan.
I found it absolutely amazing that someone was willing to entrust that kind of money to someone with such poor character as Ivy. With all the problems that she's caused for people here I'm surprised anyone would have trusted that swamp hag bar fly with a dime. Only thing anyone should ever give her is a fucking bus ticket back to Rhode Island.
The "free towners" will embrace just about anyone who is willing to live in Grafton. But they are also willing to throw people under the bus.
But that business plan sucked. Opening a mexican restaurant on credit in Bristol, NH, a town with a population of around 3000, during the off season? The big attraction in Bristol is Newfound Lake. The lake isn't that big of an attraction and only in the summer.
Look, in all seriousness...
I know a couple folks who opened a little stick-built shack-restaurant after retirement, the place is practically a bunk-house with a screen door. It would remind you of a teener-league baseball food stand, except you can walk inside. A couple dudes could whack this puppy out on a weekend.
Their whole twist is breakfast and lunch, I'm pretty sure to this day, they don't serve dinner. Its all Breakfast sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, and jumbo burgers for lunch, french fries, three-dogs-for-two-bucks, sausage sandwiches, that sorta thing. Its geared for the workin-dude and they're opened by six am, and the minute they open theres a steady stream of roofers, carpenters, mechanics, people from that-place-down-the-road (whatever), and they make a fuckin' killing. They've got potato pancakes on Thursday, and a line out the door.
And how's it done? The momma-bear calls everybody "Hon", asks hows the baby. Gives 'em a bellyfull for five-fifty, and they come back 3x a week. In the back, on the grill, is a cousin or a niece, pushin' it out - paid under the table. But they gotta be there every day, like clockwork. Because those dudes gotta be on the jobsite by 7, bangin' hammers.
Those fuckers are making money hand over fist. Says if they knew it woulda been like this, they woulda retired twenty years ago. Closed on Sundays.