Henry Lee traded his calculator for a deep fryer and hasn’t looked back. After years of grinding through corporate accounting at giants like Deloitte, EY, PwC, and Microsoft, the 46-year-old walked away to launch a Bonchon fried chicken franchise in Colorado. Now running six locations with plans for a sprawling food hall, Lee says escaping the corporate “matrix” was the best move he ever made.
Lee’s journey started in Tennessee, where he scraped by with a 3.0 GPA on a football scholarship, studying finance and economics. An NFL career didn’t pan out, so he pivoted to accounting, hopping between Big Four firms for better paychecks. His last corporate gig? A senior tax manager role at Microsoft, pulling just under $160,000 a year. But the grind—endless Zoom calls, office politics, and a soul-crushing routine—wore him down.
The tipping point came from a craving. Growing up around his family’s Chinese restaurant, Lee missed the crispy Korean fried chicken he loved in Los Angeles. Colorado’s offerings fell flat, so he took a leap, cashing out his $100,000 401(k) to cover Bonchon’s franchise fee and open his first spot. He quit Microsoft eight months into the venture, diving headfirst into three weeks of kitchen training—frying, prepping, and mastering the front counter.
“Corporate life is like being trapped in a simulation,” Lee says. “You’re stuck, chasing someone else’s rules. Once you break free, it’s a whole different world.” The shift wasn’t easy—leaving a steady salary and benefits felt like jumping without a net. But the payoff? Freedom, a higher net worth, and easier access to capital for growth. “I wish I’d done it sooner,” he admits.
Lee’s no stranger to setbacks. He weathered a 2008 layoff from Deloitte during the recession, bounced to Burger King as a tax specialist, then landed at Accenture and PwC before Microsoft. Each stop had its flavor—Deloitte was laid-back, EY strict, PwC a favorite for its people—but the corporate sameness gnawed at him. Now, owning all Bonchon rights in Colorado, he’s added a boba tea shop and is plotting a 15,000-square-foot food hall with seven eateries.
The difference is night and day. “In corporate, you’re a cog,” he says. “Now, I call the shots.” His six locations hum along, and the stress of expansion beats the monotony of tax season any day. For Lee, frying chicken isn’t just a job—it’s liberation from a life he’ll never revisit.