Chapter 91: Foundation Stone (1) "Guhhh! Wh-what the hell is this?!"
Florian started gagging and scratched at his throat furiously.
"...Strange? It's supposed to taste good... Ugh! Blegh! Ptui, ptui! Khaaaak! Gyaaaak!"
I gathered qi in my dantian and barely managed to spit out the ketchup-dipped fries I'd just put in my mouth.
Whew. Good thing I'd opened my meridians and circulated decades' worth of inner force beforehand. One wrong move and I might have fallen into qi deviation.
No, seriously—what the fuck is this?
If you throw in a bunch of sugar and salt with tomatoes, that's ketchup, right?
Then why does it taste like this?
It tastes so horrific that even if you served it to someone who hadn't eaten in a week, they'd probably roundhouse-kick you across the face.
In my life, I never imagined tomatoes could produce a flavor called "disgust."
The Tomato Ketchup MK.1 sent by Chef Beauvilliers—remade by removing the anchovies and mushrooms the British used and replacing them with tomatoes—didn't just taste like trash. It tasted closer to nuclear waste.
Wait. Wasn't this still an improvement over British-style ketchup?
You British… what the hell are you people eating?
No, at this point, can you even call them human for eating this stuff? Maybe the British are demons wearing human skin.
As if to prove my thoughts right, Florian, who'd taken a bite of ketchup-dipped fries along with me, twisted his face grotesquely and spat them out.
"Grrrk—ptui! Boss, ketchup or whatever, can this even be considered edible? You're not experimenting on me, are you?"
"...If I were experimenting, would I have eaten it myself too?"
"...Fair point. Ugh, that taffy-like aftertaste is still clinging to my tongue."
Hmm. With this, Tomato Ketchup MK.1 had all but fallen gloriously in battle under the combined harsh reviews of me and Florian.
May it rest in a better place in the afterlife—
No, my tongue's on strike. I can't even offer condolences.
If I tried, it feels like my tongue would sulk and run away from home.
"Hoo... So, Florian. What do you think? About this."
After rinsing my mouth with the coffee I'd prepared earlier, I pointed at the ketchup bottle.
"...May I speak honestly?"
Florian, who'd also been washing his tongue with coffee, set down his cup and replied.
"Have we ever not spoken honestly with each other?"
"Then I'll say it plainly. It's fucking awful. Was this really made for people to eat?"
"Language."
"Then why don't you try another spoonful, Boss?"
"No. 'Fucking awful' sounds exactly right."
I nodded solemnly.
Of course. When the Vice President of Ears of the Nation says something, it's naturally correct.
It's definitely not because I don't want to eat another bite.
Florian clicked his tongue and spoke again, looking horrified.
"Why are we French making sauce created by British bastards who might as well have coal smeared on their tongues?"
Why? Because fries and ketchup are truth itself.
If you tasted real twenty-first-century ketchup just once, you wouldn't say that.
"Ah, this really does work in theory, but I don't have a proper way to explain it."
At my words, Florian glared at me with eyes that looked ready to kill after being fed garbage.
"...More than half of what you do is strange, Boss, but until now, I could at least somewhat understand it."
"...And?"
"This time though... I don't think so. How on earth are we supposed to sell this trash? If we put this on the market, customers will storm in with guns."
"Hmm."
"Honestly... I think we should just scrap this sauce."
Hah. Saying something that weak—can you even call yourself the Vice President of Ears of the Nation?
I clasped my hands behind my back.
"Florian, have you read today's issue of Forbes?"
"...No? I haven't yet."
Florian tilted his head, clearly confused about what I was suddenly talking about.
"Coincidentally, a phrase I like was printed in today's 'Quote of the Day.'"
"Isn't that column written by you, Boss?"
"'Endure like hell, and you'll win.' What a valuable phrase."
"...Pardon? What are you even—"
"If you endure like crazy, you win. Florian."
"Boss, have you finally gone mad?"
Why are you looking at me like that again?
I'm telling you, fries and ketchup is a guaranteed combo. If you endure, you win.
Like the promised eighth inning in a Korea–Japan baseball match. Like a stock I didn't buy that suddenly skyrockets. Pure science.
Click.
At that moment, someone opened the office door and stepped in.
"Mr. Pession? Why are you—oh."
"Boss, someone from the Holy Roman Empire has come to see you."
Behind Alexandre Pession stood a familiar young man with dark brown hair, holding a travel bag and hesitantly stepping inside.
"F-Finance Minister. Do you remember me?"
"Of course I do! Hahaha, please, have a seat!"
I jumped to my feet and brought over a chair for him.
A big catch like this coming to me? Basic courtesy demands at least this much.
"...So this is the company run by the Finance Minister? It's not particularly flashy."
If anything, it's more modest than the city hall in Saint-Quentin where I used to work.
Noel, a country bumpkin who had just arrived in Paris, swept his eyes around the office.
Click.
The clerk who had told him to wait earlier entered and plopped down across from him.
The clerk smiled and extended a hand.
"Sorry about earlier. A guest had come to see the Boss, so I couldn't greet you properly. Your name was...?"
"Ah, yes. I'm François Noel Babeuf, from Saint-Quentin."
Babeuf shook his hand in return.
"My name is Alexandre Pession. I handle inventory processing at Ears of the Nation. Since this is our first meeting, may I call you Mr. Babeuf?"
"Yes, that's fine."
But this man's… skin color…?
As if noticing Babeuf's gaze, Pession smiled awkwardly.
"...Ah, I do stand out, don't I? Haha. I'm of mixed Black and white heritage."
"N-No, that's not what I meant!"
Babeuf waved his hands frantically.
What a terrible blunder. He felt like crawling into a mouse hole.
"Haha, it's fine. Honestly, I prefer people like you who react openly rather than those who whisper behind my back."
"...I'm sorry."
"Haha, I said it's fine. Now, here's the application form. Please fill in the blanks and hand it back to me."
With that, Pession handed him a sheet with empty spaces.
Name, age, work history, and so on.
Babeuf began filling them out one by one.
For a long while, the office was filled only with the scratch of pen against paper.
"...By the way, Mr. Pession, how did you end up working here?"
It was Babeuf who broke the silence, wanting somehow to make up for his earlier mistake.
"Ah, me? Hmm... Mr. Babeuf, have you ever heard of a club called 'Friends of the Blacks'?"
"...No, I can't say I have."
"Haha, understandable. It's a private gathering of Enlightenment thinkers, including the Marquis de Condorcet. On a small scale, they help find jobs for Black people like me. On a larger scale, they strive to expand our rights. Thanks to them, I'm able to work here."
Though there is quite a lot of work, he added with a laugh.
Despite Babeuf's blunder, Pession didn't seem to take offense.
Seeing his expression, Babeuf let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Before he knew it, the application was complete.
"I'm done. Should I just hand it in like this?"
"Yes, thank you. Let's see—nothing disqualifying... Oh? You have experience working in the civil engineering department at city hall? I'd say that's definitely a plus."
"Th-then does that mean I'm accepted?"
"Haha. I'm just an employee. The decision is made directly by the Vice President or the Boss. I hope you understand I can't say for certain."
Click.
The door opened again, and a young man Babeuf had never seen before poked his head in.
"Mr. Pession, are you busy right now?"
"No. What is it, Boss?"
"Oh? Good. I wanted to ask something. Altogether, how much work are you handling at the moment?"
"Pardon? Well... I have to process inventory for the convenience restaurant, prepare this month's profit and loss report... quite a lot. Why do you ask?"
"Hmm. That's quite a bit. ...And Mr. Pession? Who is this gentleman?"
The man called Boss glanced at Babeuf before turning back to Pession.
"Ah, this is François Noel Babeuf, who has applied to our company."
"Oh, really?"
The man studied Babeuf with interest.
"Mr. Babeuf? This is our Boss, Guillaume de Toulon."
"H-Hello, Monsieur Guillaume!"
So this is Guillaume de Toulon!
Babeuf sprang to his feet and bowed deeply.
"Hey, that's not necessary. You look older than I am."
"St-still."
"More importantly, Mr. Babeuf. Do you like music?"
"Mu...sic? Yes, I suppose I do."
Music? Out of nowhere?
Babeuf tilted his head but answered.
"Riiight? Then I can entrust it to you without worry! Mr. Babeuf, start work tomorrow."
"...Pardon? Haven't you even read my application yet?"
"Oh, the application? Mr. Pession?"
"Yes, Boss."
"When you looked at it, was there anything disqualifying?"
"No. None that I could see."
"Good enough then. Mr. Babeuf? Welcome to Ears of the Nation. Go home for today and start work tomorrow."
"...That's it?"
"Yes. Is there some problem? Unless you were once arrested for writing lewd novels in your youth or something...?"
"N-No!"
"Haha, then it's fine."
The Boss smiled good-naturedly and nodded.
"Ah, Boss?"
"Yes? What is it, Mr. Babeuf?"
"What duties will I be assigned?"
"Oh, if I had to say... it's an entertainment agency. Think of it as something like a band."
"...Pardon?"
Babeuf could only doubt his ears at the strange word he had never heard before.
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