The Charismatic Charlie Wade

“Brewing Puer tea is like coaxing a dragon from a slumber, an intricate dance of heat and time. Yet now, folks take the easy path, bottling its essence. Not just for sipping from a cap twist, but chilled, over ice. While our patrons, they’re confined to the embrace of boiling water at a steadfast hundred degrees. And then there’s the matter of aging tea leaves, the passage of time as their warmth dwindles, their flavors shift, how do we hope to keep up with them?”

A heavy sigh escaped Anthony Robbins’s lips, his words laden with melancholy. “Father,” he began, voice tinged with resignation, “I’ve long harbored the inkling that our venture isn’t a stroll through cherry blossoms. The competition, it’s a maelstrom, an unrelenting tempest.”

He paused before adding, “Moreover, our roots run deep in the southern province, where resources and connections flourish, but the industry remains an infant, held back by inconvenient pathways. Even if we transition to dry tea beverages, like the neighbor with their famous old godmother sauce, we’d find the journey fraught with hardship. Back when e-commerce was in its infancy, they reigned as sauce sovereigns. Yet, as the digital tide surged, they found themselves adrift, left in the wake of a new era…”

Anthony Robbins’s gaze grew steadfast as he dared to voice the unthinkable. “Father, hear me out. Perhaps, it’s time we search for a new home, a worthy spot to dock our company. You’ve toiled your life away; now, it’s the age to bask in life’s twilight.”

Eric Robbins’s response was a dismissive snort, and he inquired sharply, “A new home, you say? This home of ours, is that not good enough? Do you think it’s a breeze to find a place anew? If you’ve lost faith in the industry, how can you expect others to believe?”

times. Bigger fish are trimming sails, budget slashes all around. No one’s keen on spending a dime to scoop us up, or those fledgling brands smaller in size. The market’s plagued by fly-by-night schemes, hoping today’s seeds will blossom by morrow’s sun, and no soul’s willing to burden themselves with a load like ours. Even the small fry view us as mere

probably hawk decayed leaves as ‘tea’ – as

Robbins’s lips, his query tinged with defeat. “Is there no window to

– a reduction to 800 million seems reasonable,

400 million is a paltry sum. A fair valuation would be no less

“You’ve time for such fancies, yet no plan to tame the dealers tonight? They clamor for a 40% carve, a concession I can’t stomach. See if you can’t sweet-talk them to a 4,50 split after a few swigs. Time to seal the pact.” Anthony Robbins couldn’t help but interject, “Father, a

someone forks over 700 million, I’ll streak thrice down main

eyes

beneath a