"Florian, are you going again today?"
"I have to work if our family is going to eat. Please get some good rest, Mother."
"How can you be this dependable…"
Seeing his mother's eyes redden for no reason, twenty-nine-year-old Florian hurried out of the house.
They were probably tears of pride at her son's admirable diligence, but even so—whether she cried from happiness or sadness—he didn't want to see her cry anymore.
Maybe it was because he had already seen enough of her tears to last a lifetime.
When his father came home as a cold corpse from the battlefield more than ten years ago, his mother shed tears like chicken droppings, drip by drip.
When God took his seven-year-old little brother, Henri, after he fell ill with sepsis, his mother cried so bitterly.
And when his mother's sudden sickness forced Florian to quit school and start working at the factory, she cried an amount of tears that couldn't even be compared to before.
Florian didn't want to see tears on his mother's face anymore.
So today, too, Florian hurried his steps toward the factory.
Daily wage: 25 sou.
Even then, 5 sou of that was extra money he got thanks to the factory manager thinking well of him.
The manager said it was admirable—this young man with "a bit of ink in him," trying to scrape by while supporting his widowed mother, even taking on the nastiest jobs in the factory.
Florian thought, So there really is no rule saying you have to die, and today, too, he started turning the machines.
"All right! Morning shift is over! Everyone take a 20-minute break and start work again at 1:20!"
The moment the foreman's shout ended, workers everywhere dragged their exhausted feet and flopped down wherever they could perch.
Florian mixed in with them and dropped down anywhere.
It had already been three years since he started working, but the difficulty was the same then and now.
At least he had built up some know-how, so his body didn't scream every night like it used to—but even so, factory work wasn't something you could call "only a little hard."
"Grrrkk."
Today again, an alarm clock rang from Florian's stomach.
Even though it was loud enough to be annoying, no one around him complained.
Because everyone's stomach was making the same sound.
"Damn it, what's the point of having a break? It's not like we can eat."
Florian turned his eyes slightly toward the worker next to him grumbling, but he was so tired he just closed his eyes.
The moment everything turned black as he shut them, Florian loved it.
On that black canvas in front of his eyes, Florian had written many things since childhood—and drawn them—and built them.
More than anything, when he sank into this or that kind of imagination, the physical sensation called hunger would vanish at some point.
Sometimes he pictured himself as a victorious general marching through town; sometimes he tried to imagine the banquet dinners of noble lords—meals he had only ever heard about, never once seen, never once tasted.
Of course, since he had truly never seen them, the "fine cuisine" he imagined was far removed from real cooking, but so what?
It wasn't like anyone could tell Florian's imagination what to do.
"Grrrkk."
But today, there was a heckler who did tell that imagination what to do.
It was the first time Florian's stomach had churned this badly, and now he was annoyed that even his own body wouldn't move the way he wanted.
There's nothing for you to eat here anyway, you bastard.
But as Florian was thinking that, he felt a delicious smell drifting in from outside the factory.
Maybe the others felt it too, because one by one they stood up and moved to check what was happening outside.
Florian also rose and joined the line.
What he saw outside was truly shocking.
"Everyone, try the 'easy meal' made by People of Isaac!"
"It's an 'easy meal' that fills you up fast and hearty! Everyone, try one!"
"Get a warm, delicious meal for only 1.5 sou!"
"W-what is this?"
Florian spoke without meaning to.
A few older women were walking through the street in loud voices, carrying cookie baskets packed with bread—food with something stuffed inside.
The street was full of the smell of freshly baked bread.
At that intoxicating scent, Florian swallowed without meaning to.
And not just Florian—the workers who had come out following the smell were all swallowing over and over.
Then one worker stepped out of the group, approached the women, and asked,
"Excuse me… ma'am? What are you selling?"
"Oh! We're cooks from People of Isaac! Aren't you hungry?"
"Well, I mean, I am hungry, but…"
"Then why don't you try this 'easy meal' we made for only 1.5 sou?"
Florian watched with curiosity as that worker and one of the strange women spoke.
Soon, the worker pulled two coins from his pocket, and the woman took out something bread-like and traded it.
"So… I just hold it and eat it?"
"Yes! You can eat it like that!"
After saying that, the worker took a big bite of the thing called an "easy meal."
"W-what the hell! There's meat in this!?"
"What? Meat?"
"He said there's meat in it! How much!?"
"Wh-what kind of meat has this much in it!? Isn't this the wrong one? Ma'am, this isn't 1.5 sou—this is 15 sou, isn't it!? Y-you're a scammer!"
At the man's shout, the gathered workers were swept into excitement.
Some were shocked that there was meat inside; others stared at the women selling the "easy meal" like they were swindlers. In an instant, the street in front of the factory turned noisy.
What broke that noise was the woman who had sold the food, speaking.
"It's exactly the amount of meat that matches 1.5 sou. Our People of Isaac never bluffs!"
When she finished, the workers fell silent.
For a moment, anyway.
After that, it became a frenzy even louder than before.
"Me! Give me one!"
"Me too! Give me one too!"
"Ma'am! One for me too!"
And among the people shouting like that… was Florian.
Florian wrapped an extra "easy meal" in the cleanest handkerchief he owned, then tucked it into his chest as if hiding it carefully.
Florian was happy.
Meat.
It was meat.
Meat he hadn't even gotten to see more than a few times after losing his father.
It had been about an hour since he ate that "easy meal," but a deep meat flavor still lingered on Florian's tongue.
Bread not long out of the oven, meat inside that still held the heat from when it was grilled, and vegetables that added a crisp bite.
The taste all of it offered was the best meal Florian had eaten since he grew up.
So Florian bought one more "easy meal" and hid it in his chest.
He wanted to let his mother taste something this delicious.
For the first time, the value of the extra 5 sou the factory manager gave him felt especially meaningful.
When the factory closed and it was time to go home, Florian returned with a joy greater than any day since he started working there.
So far, I had hired fifteen people. As for the kitchen, I rented and remodeled an empty house near the boarding house so I could go back and forth and inspect it easily.
Remodeling cost a fair amount of money, but if about fifteen people were going to be inside working all at once, it was unavoidable.
On the first day we started business, we made 150 portions of "easy meal" and sold 38 portions.
Labor: 30 sou.
Cost: 150 sou.
Sales: 57 sou.
On the third day after starting business, we made 230 portions and sold 180 portions.
Labor: 30 sou.
Cost: 230 sou.
Sales: 270 sou.
On the seventh day after starting business, we made 377 portions and sold 370 portions.
Labor: 30 sou.
Cost: 377 sou.
Sales: 555 sou.
In just one week, People of Isaac recorded a surplus of 1.5 times.
As time passed, the hired women must have picked up know-how, because the speed at which they grilled the meat increased. And the workers who had looked at our door-to-door sellers with suspicious eyes on the first day now competed to fling money at our "easy meal."
"Wahahah—! Kwahahahaha! Mmphuhehahhuhahhih!"
Money, money! Money is pouring in like it's insane! Bitcoin? Why do that? If you have time for that, make sandwiches—you'd earn triple! At this rate, am I going to Mars too? This reminds me of some twenty-first-century American electric car company. That CEO was pretty crazy. Mars! I'm going! Heeheehee!
I was excited. So excited I couldn't control myself.
More than anything, what made me excited was that I still had 11,000 livres of capital left in my hands.
An investment of only 2,800 livres—before the business had even properly settled—was already earning around 28 livres a day after just one week.
At this rate, give it one month and I could draw out 100 livres a day easily.
And on top of that, the women we employed were becoming our business's standard-bearers and spreading our shop all over the neighborhood on their own.
Well, of course—they had landed a honey job: work two hours, get a free lunch, and earn 2 sou. Of course they wouldn't want this shop to fail.
Nice. The union and the boss becoming one body and marching forward—truly a beautiful sight.
Also, thanks to the rumors spread by our worker customers who were extremely satisfied with our sandwich, our "easy meal" had already built a reputation beyond the Grenelle Street near the school, all the way to the Saint-Antoine Street on the opposite side of Paris.
Which meant the "People of Isaac" sandwich we were about to expand had both the background and the fast pass to success that would let it spread faster and easier across all of Paris.
"They're even doing marketing for us. I'm grateful, but… shouldn't I do some kind of event for our customers?"
I'm Korean—I know propriety. If something comes in, something should go out.
Mmphuhehehe. Just imagining Parisians freaking out over what I'm about to do—this nasty laugh won't stop. What do I do about this?