Operational Authority

Founder Figure

My father (77) was self-employed, an entrepreneur without leverage, driving his own concrete truck — at one point, two — and briefly hiring a second driver. He worked relentlessly, chasing social status as a protective halo. And with the pressure to return as a successful immigrant.

Our task was to tackle every critical problem in our way , so everything could run by Monday. Silence replaced parenting; he worked methodically, analytically, unfolding each solution in sequence. Even at meals, it was clear he was mapping execution plans in his head.

I lived systemic alienation by proxy, as the job turned my father into a high-functioning automaton. I had no childhood — only proximity to relentless duty. At 16, I walked away. — rejecting ambition, seeking personal integrity. I never really looked back.

Entrepreneur Prototype

I met my best and only friend during my final year of high school. Samuel (46) came from a bourgeois Jewish family, and in his field, men like him were called “lenders” — shorthand for credit-leasing. He showed up with cash when liquidity was tight. His car was his office.

He spoke constantly about balance sheets, client types, and what made a “perfect financial.” His deals targeted firms with pristine numbers — he knew how to read them. I listened out of loyalty, never envy; the whole thing felt morally grey, borderline crooked.

At 35, he launched his own firm — same model as the financing outfit where he trained, a kind of private lender. One of his former bosses would later go to prison. For five years, it thrived — then came seminars, alcohol, cocaine, burnout, lawsuits. I’d already walked away.

Restaurateur Archetype

In late 2023, I joined the pizzeria run by “Mussé” (65), a Stockholm-based restaurateur with six companies and full ownership of two restaurants, including a tapas bar downtown. He was on-site two-thirds of the time — either in his office or directly on the floor.

What stood out was his role as on-site problem solver. He varnished tables, fixed plumbing, and repaired everything from the dishwasher to the fridge. He’d ask if I needed help — and a few times took over the station himself. He subbed in as waiter, or pizzaïolo — no ego, no distance.

Even as a dishwasher, the lowest-ranked job, I could call him and he’d show up — no delay. He never asked who gave the order. Anyone — cook, runner, waiter — could point, and he’d act. In the kitchen, he moved like staff, not like a boss — always alert to the smallest breakdown.

Cofounding Teams

At 38, after years of backpacking and drifting between underpaid tech jobs, I returned to Paris and discovered the startup world. For the first time, a professional path felt both honest and exciting: a way out of inherited pressure, without scams or self-sacrifice.

The ecosystem promised high output, then escape — not a lifelong sentence. I could work like an athlete for 3 to 5 years, then exit the system with dignity. That fantasy matched both my tech past and my deeper need for freedom without deceit.

I quickly framed the whole thing like an acquirer would. Execution and team were the only real levers. I wanted to be the technical cofounder — not a spokesperson, not a figurehead. What mattered was to ship real features fast and pick the right partner. Everything else was noise.

Co-founder ambiguity and early red flags

When I joined the team, no one introduced themselves as the founder. Henrik acted as the owner, but Sahar was the sole visible authority. I kept asking myself: who’s actually in charge? No title, no presence, no clear anchor.

At first, I assumed she was just another manager. But she answered questions Henrik avoided. She was sharp, brief, and firm. No warmth. No background story. She appeared out of nowhere, but nothing moved without her.

Over the years, I’d worked in 44 companies across 6 countries — always in the shadows, always under pressure. Kitchens, warehouses, call centers, software teams. I’d seen every management flavor — tough, chaotic, absent, cynical.

But never hostile, never immature. What I saw at Quan, through Sahar, had no precedent. The coldness wasn’t cultural — it felt calculated. And it showed up instantly, without background, without buildup.

Patterns I’ve seen before

I’d been through three failed co-founder stories before joining QUAN. Each time, the breakdown came from the same ingredients: blurred ownership, mismatched presence, and unspoken hierarchy.

One founder has the energy, the other holds the veto. One builds trust with the team, the other stays silent but controls the money. These setups always implode.

The founder vacuum at QUAN

Henrik was there every day — visible, engaged, occasionally playful. But every critical call — contracts, suppliers, layout — was filtered through Sahar. Staff saw her rarely, but feared her judgement. She hovered over the structure, undefined but decisive.

Even as I built trust with the kitchen crew, I sensed the real power didn’t sit in the restaurant. It sat somewhere adjacent, unnamed. The entire hierarchy floated on ambiguity.

Why this matters

In every startup, founder alignment isn’t optional. It’s oxygen. When one co-founder avoids exposure, while the other plays the frontman, the team gets confused. Loyalty dilutes. Authority becomes performative.

It’s not a branding problem — it’s an operational fragility. And eventually, someone pays the price.

These three experiences shaped my understanding of what it means to build something with someone. A bad founding pair kills a good idea faster than anything else.