Chapter 18
Three days after the name Maison Monbel was decided, the area in front of the manor turned into a complete mess.
At first, it was just a few letters.
One count's household asked which dates were available, a marchioness inquired whether she could secure a table before next month's social gathering, and House Kalden sent word that the duke wanted the Duke's Course one more time.
That far, things were good.
Letters had dignity. They came sealed and scented, and were something nobles sent while staying within the bounds of their own decorum.
Uncle Bernard only had to accept them politely and stack them beside the condolence ledger.
The problem was that households that decided letters wouldn't do began sending people instead.
The first to arrive was a servant from a viscount's household.
He stood in front of the main gate early in the morning and said he wanted the earliest available spot.
Uncle Bernard tried to send him back politely, but the servant held his ground, saying he couldn't return to his master empty-handed.
Next came a baron's steward.
Then a count's attendant.
Then a marquis's coachman.
And by afternoon, more than ten people sent by various houses were standing in front of the main gate.
Marie looked out the window and said quietly,
“Why are there so many people in front of our house?”
“They're here to make reservations. Fuck.”
“Isn't it good if the restaurant is doing well?”
“Usually.”
“Then why does your face look like shit?”
I looked out the window.
The servants were eyeing one another over their places.
When an attendant who had arrived after him stood a little farther ahead, one steward shoved him back with his body, while another servant brought over a small chair and sat beside the main gate.
On one side, two coachmen were arguing over whose master held the higher title.
It was funny at first, but by the next day, I couldn't laugh anymore.
Because a homeless person had appeared in front of the main gate.
Of course, it wasn't a real homeless person.
His clothes were perfectly fine, the blanket he had brought bore his family's crest, and even the lunch basket he had brought had an air of dignity.
But no matter how dignified you are, if you spend the night in front of someone else's manor gate, you're a homeless person.
Uncle Bernard stared at the scene in silence for a long while.
“Have those people… been there since yesterday?”
“Yes.”
The gatekeeper answered with a dead expression.
“I thought they were just changing shifts briefly at dawn, but there were more servants in the alley behind them.”
“Changing shifts?”
“Yes. Three servants from House Reinfeld are taking turns standing there.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead when I heard that.
“These fucking crazy noble bastards.”
“Kyle.”
Uncle Bernard called my name.
“You mustn't refer to our guests' houses that way.”
“Then what should I call them?”
“Enthusiastic prospective customers, perhaps…”
“That sounds even more frightening.”
A small society was already forming beyond the courtyard.
A sheet of paper listing who had arrived in what order was being passed around, and people were fighting over who would manage it.
One servant insisted that his master was a count and therefore had to stand ahead of a baron's servant, while the baron's servant retorted that arriving first took precedence over etiquette.
He was technically right.
But seeing etiquette and first come, first served collide in a restaurant reservation line felt strange.
There had been reservation wars in my previous life, too.
At popular restaurants, the phone lines exploded when reservations opened, and reservation apps sold out within seconds.
But in another world without phones or apps, people came in person and lay down in front of the manor.
When civilization lags behind, unreasonable customers become more physical.
“We need to establish some rules.”
Elysia looked up while flipping through the condolence ledger.
“What kind of rules?”
“Reservation rules. If we leave things like this, someone will really get hurt in front of the manor.”
“Get hurt?”
At that moment, shouts rang out from outside.
“That spot was originally claimed by our house!”
“Our servant was standing here first!”
“Do you not know the rank of our house?”
“Isn't it more vulgar to bring up your house's rank in a reservation line?”
I walked over to the window.
Two servants had their hands on the swords at their waists.
Apparently, not every servant was incapable of using a sword.
No, actually, servants of noble houses might have learned at least enough to imitate a duel in order to protect their masters' dignity.
The problem was that the reason for this duel was the order of a dinner reservation.
“Are those bastards about to duel?”
Uncle Bernard looked out the window, and his face hardened.
“We must stop them.”
“Yes. Blood splashed in front of a restaurant would be bad for hygiene.”
“This isn't a hygiene issue.”
“That too.”
Uncle Bernard hurried outside, and Marie ran after him.
I sighed and shook my head.
“You see, my lady? We need rules now.”
Reservations without rules were war, and war disrupted the kitchen's workflow.
I could tolerate a noble getting angry because they couldn't secure a reservation, but I couldn't allow servants who came to make reservations to draw swords in front of the manor.
More importantly, our restaurant was still struggling to handle even one table a day.
If we got swept up in the excitement and accepted reservations every day, the staff would die first.
I thought back to my previous life.
There had been a time when I'd gotten rid of our days off and kept the restaurant open.
The reservations were full, sales were good, and the employees' eyes had gone dead.
That's when I learned. People don't run on money alone. Even if you pay them more, if you don't let them sleep, they'll eventually break.
In this life, at least, I didn't want to die the same way.
“We'll be closed two days a week.”
When I said that, Elysia blinked.
“Closed?”
“Yes.”
“Even with this many reservation inquiries?”
“That's why we need to rest.”
“But we could make money.”
“My lady, if the kitchen dies, we can't make money.”
Elysia kept her mouth shut for a moment.
“That's true.”
“I realized that too late in my previous life, and it killed me.”
“Your previous life?”
“It's just an expression.”
By now, Elysia usually let comments like that slide.
Once you acknowledge that there's something strange about each other, relationships become easier.
I wrote the new rules beneath the first page of the ledger.
- Reservations are accepted only at 9 a.m. one week before the date of the meal.
- There are five business days and two days off each week; one table per day, with the reservation deposit paid in advance.
- No entry for late arrivals.
“No entry for late arrivals?”
Elysia's eyes widened when she read the sentence.
“Isn't that too harsh?”
“If we're not harsh, they'll be late.”
“What if a noble is late?”
“Then the noble is late, too.”
“What if Duke Kalden is late?”
“Then he's a late duke.”
Marie returned just in time to hear that and looked horrified.
“You really don't plan to live long, do you?”
“If the reservation schedule collapses, the kitchen collapses. If the kitchen collapses, the plates collapse, and if the plates collapse, the prices collapse.”
“You're suddenly being awfully serious.”
“Time is a chef's faith.”
Uncle Bernard had just returned, and when he heard that, he said in a tired voice,
“I stopped the duel just now. Fortunately, they hadn't drawn their swords yet.”
“Good. Uncle, please post these rules at the main gate.”
I handed him what I had just written.
Uncle Bernard read it and paused for a moment.
“Exactly 9 a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“Why 9 a.m.?”
“If it's too early, they'll become homeless. If it's too late, kitchen preparations will fall behind. And the number is neat.”
In truth, it was because I remembered when reservations had opened in my previous life.
Nine in the morning was when people started their day, office phones began ringing, and reservation staff were best positioned to face hell.
There were no phones in this world, so the main gate would face hell instead, but it was still better than having people line up at random.
At least, that's what I thought.
That was fucking wrong.
The morning after we posted the rules, the area in front of the manor was an even bigger mess.
“Kyle.”
Marie said it while looking out the window.
“There are even more of them than yesterday.”
I looked out the window and fell silent for a moment.
In front of the main gate stood servants and stewards sent by various houses, their postures more orderly than yesterday but their eyes far more frightening.
Some had already folded up their blankets, while one steward was even holding a small hourglass.
One person insisted that no one could move even a toe ahead of anyone else before 9 a.m., while another was arguing over exactly how many paces from the manor gate the waiting line began.
There was even a simple tent set up on one side.
“What's that?”
Elysia asked.
Uncle Bernard's face stiffened.
“It appears to be House Kalden's waiting tent.”
“Why would they pitch a tent in front of someone else's house?”
“Because they're the duke's house.”
That explained it.
It was fucking ridiculous, but it made sense.
Another commotion broke out in front of the main gate.
“Doesn't it say that waiting before 9 a.m. won't be recognized?”
“It doesn't recognize waiting, but it doesn't prohibit occupying a waiting area!”
“That is sophistry!”
“That's a flaw in the wording of the reservation rules, not a fault of our house!”
I grabbed my head with both hands.
“Fuck, should I have written them in more detail?”
Outside the window, hands were once again moving toward sword hilts.
This time, Uncle Bernard moved before I did.
“I'll go.”
“Uncle, could you make numbered tickets for reservations?”
“Numbered tickets?”
“Yes. We hand them out in order to people who arrive at 9 a.m. No ticket, no reservation. No standing in line by proxy. No duels. No tents. No sleeping in front of someone else's house.”
“I'll be sure to include the last two.”
Uncle Bernard's voice held genuine feeling.
I'd thought setting rules would put an end to things, but I was wrong.
Once you set rules, people use them to raise hell in even more expensive ways.
It was the same in my previous life.
When reservation apps appeared, macros appeared. When we accepted reservations by phone, agencies appeared. When we set up waiting lines, people began fighting over chairs.
In front of good food, people advance civilization while regressing it at the same time.
Marie asked cautiously,
“Kyle.”
“Yeah.”
“We're really doing well, right?”
I looked out the window.
The servants were glaring at one another as they waited for 9 a.m.
People who had spent the night in front of someone else's house, folding blankets bearing noble crests, looking ready to duel over their places, all because of a single restaurant reservation.
It wasn't normal.
But business really was doing well.
“Yeah. It's doing so well that it's a problem.”
Elysia stood beside me looking out the window, then gave a small laugh.
“Then maybe we can sell this mess, too.”
“Sell it as what?”
“Maison Monbel reservation slots. A spot valuable enough for nobles to duel over.”
There was a brief silence.
Marie looked at Elysia with a thoroughly fed-up expression, while Uncle Bernard went out to the main gate pretending he hadn't heard anything.
I slowly nodded.
“My lady.”
“Yes?”
“As expected, you have a talent for business.”
Elysia smiled broadly when she heard that.