"The Pearl on Park is more than just a restaurant," I say. "It's a destination. It's innovative.

“It elevates cuisine, and gives diners an experience that they can keep for a lifetime. This is a restaurant that elevates the culinary world of New York City."

"Some experience that's been," one investor says under his breath, rolling his eyes.

The restaurant is closed today, and my investors and I are sitting in the dining room. They called this meeting last minute, and I knew it wasn't going to be an easy conversation.

It's bad enough that I'm losing money by being closed today, but now I'm forced to listen to a group of skittish investors tell me that my food sucks and doesn't have a future. That's a tough pill to swallow.

"We just don't see it," one man says, shaking his head and scratching his short-cropped beard. "Nothing's adding up."

"The reviews of your food are some of the worst we've ever seen, and that's saying something," another man says. His mid-section is so large that he's using it as a shelf for his hands. "The critic goes so far as to say that an inexperienced child could do cuisine better than you can."

"I can explain," I say.

"There's no need," he says. "We've seen enough. The reviews make it crystal clear."

"Look, I have the money," I say. "I just don't have the liquidity to sustain this new venture without your backing."

"We understand where you're coming from. We really do. And we pride ourselves on taking risks," one man says.

He's trying to sound empathetic but instead it comes off feeling patronizing. "We root for the underdog and fund projects that many banks wouldn't touch within a 10-foot pole. But this is a risk we can't take. It would be suicide. If the food was any good—"

"The food is good," I say, cutting him off. "Those reviews are bullshit. A man who has a personal vendetta against me wrote them.

“I don't know why, or where that's stemming rom, or what his issue is, but it's true. Let me prove it to you. I'll cook for you right now—you can taste the food I make here at the Pearl—here, I'll fire up the grill, and I'll share the menu with you and—"

"Mr. Palmer, I'm sorry, but this is non-negotiable," the bearded man says. "We've already made our decision. Save your cooking for another time."

I nod my head. I'm trying to keep my cool, but I'm so frustrated that I think I could flip over every table in this dining room, and Hulk every chair. I could rip down the curtains and smash every plate.

My frustration is boiling over, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to remain calm.

"Thank you for your time," I say, once I know this conversation is over. I did everything I could, but even that wasn't enough. "I'll show you men out."

I watch as each of them push their chairs away from the table, and shuffle their feet to the front door. I unlock the door, walk them step out into the afternoon sun, and walk as they disappear into a nameless sea of businessmen and cars and taxis.

I lock the door behind them and then turn to look at my restaurant.

The Pearl was supposed to be my crowning achievement in life. It was supposed to be my legacy. I've planned, dreamed, and prepared for this day my entire life.

But without investors, I'll have to close this flagship restaurant. There's no way around it.

How the fuck did things get this bad? How could I let this happen?

It feels like I've hit rock bottom.

I walk over to the bar and grab a bottle of Glendronach 18. People ask me what my favorite whiskey is—and that's a tough question to answer because it varies on my mood, but this bottle right here is always in my top five.

Happy, sad, mad, glad—whatever—you name it, and this whiskey works.

I grab a glass, and pour an amber ribbon of the liquid in. I take a sip and let the liquor burn a hot trail down my throat. And then the flavors hit me—sweet sherry, leather, tobacco, and even polished wood dance on my tongue.

I stare at the bottle's label. There's an idyllic sketch of what must presumably be the Scottish countryside. And as I stare at this label, it hits me.

At least I still have Nicole.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I remember her.

With her, I can get through this. I can get through anything.

In fact, I can picture sitting on a grassy hill, in the countryside with Nicole … just like the one on this whiskey bottle.

Just then, I hear a rapid knock on the door. I turn and realize my day just got better.

It's Nicole.

I can't believe she's here. She's wearing a cotton dress that is getting kicked up by the wind, and her hair is dancing about her shoulder.

I walk over and open the door.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says. "I saw you weren't open. I was worried. And I just wanted to—"

"Shh," I say, placing a finger on her lips. "Less talking." I wrap my arms around her delicate body in a full embrace and lift her off her feet. I pull her into the restaurant and lock the door behind us, and then, I lean down and bring my lips to hers.