Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Daisy comforted herself that she had to accept reality, then turned to Mary and said,

“The ingredients I bought today should make about twenty pounds of cookies like these.”

After that, the whole family joined in the discussion about how to price the cookies.

Daisy knew that in retail or food service, learning to keep careful accounts and control costs was the foundation of a successful business.

So she had recorded every step of the process in detail, including the losses and costs each part incurred.

Even the two pieces of coal needed to bake the cookies had been factored in.

For every pound of finished Diamond Cookies, they needed six ounces of cake flour and four ounces of butter.

There were also three ounces of powdered sugar, two ounces of milk powder, one ounce of granulated sugar, and two egg yolks.

The powdered sugar and eggs were already fairly cheap. The real cost lay in the butter and milk powder.

Daisy had bought the butter and milk powder at retail. Since she had not purchased enough to qualify for wholesale prices, both cost one shilling per pound.

Calculated according to the amount used in one pound of cookies, the average cost came to about seven pence per pound.

There would not be much fluctuation either way.

In the grocery shops on the market, ordinary sweet hard biscuits sold for about five to ten pence per pound.

French pastries in dessert shops were even more expensive, most of them costing around two or three shillings per pound.

“Our Diamond Cookies have to sell for at least twenty pence per pound if we want to make a profit.”

As Daisy spoke, she sat at the dining table with paper and pen in hand, swiftly drawing up a list.

“Twenty pence? Isn’t that a little too expensive?” Mary was the first to ask.

Daisy looked up at her slowly, a faint, inexplicable sigh in her eyes.

“Your hourly wage should be included too.

“I’ve seen so many small restaurant owners outside only count the cost of ingredients when they set their prices.

“They never calculate the value of their own time, and in the end their income barely covers their expenses.

“Since they don’t make any real money, they eventually start cutting corners in the production process.

“They try to scrape out profit by skimping on materials. If that goes on, the business will only get worse and worse.”

Even though Mary was her own mother, Daisy could not guarantee that she would still have the patience to maintain quality if there were no long-term profit in it.

Even mothers and daughters had to settle accounts clearly.

Besides, the cost of development and packaging also had to be included.

At first, everyone around the dining table felt that although the cookies were delicious, they were still too expensive for Clark Street.

The price had not reached two shillings, but it was certainly not cheap either.

But after hearing Daisy’s explanation, they all felt she had a point.

Mr. Nash said to Mary,

“That’s right. We can’t leave out the cost of your labor. If these cookies become popular and start making money, you should get your share too.”

Daisy said, “It’s easy to raise the unit price. We won’t sell them loose by weight. We’ll sell them in bags.

“Each bag will contain five ounces of cookies and sell for seven pence. That amount is just right for afternoon tea.

“We can also offer a few samples first for people to try.

“Today, I also stocked some ordinary biscuits priced at six to ten pence per pound, so customers will have different grades to choose from.”

That way, everything would be foolproof.

After hearing her words, Fred could not help nodding in agreement. Then he thought for a moment and said,

“Actually, seven pence for five ounces isn’t that expensive.

“The neighbors may not be able to afford them every day, but the shopkeepers and cooks on Dorothy Street certainly can.”

The average daily wage of ordinary workers nearby was thirty pence.

But the small shop owners and important kitchen cooks on Dorothy Street earned several times what ordinary workers did.

There were plenty of small restaurant owners making thirty or forty pounds a month.

Daisy looked at her cheap father with some appreciation.

She had not expected him to take the initiative to plan out a target customer base for this kind of product. Not bad. He was teachable.

Mary smiled and said, “That’s good. Our family just held a discount promotion, and Lobit copied us to steal our business. Now it’s our turn to steal his.”

Mr. Nash pondered for a while, then said,

“These cookies don’t look particularly special. Their most distinctive feature is the texture.

“Someone who has never eaten them may not take the initiative to buy them, but once they have, they won’t forget the taste.”

He looked at Mary and said, “Why don’t you make another tray tonight and pick out the ones that don’t look as nice?

“Tomorrow, when we deliver milk to the restaurants on Dorothy Street, we’ll let the people in the kitchens there have a taste.”

After saying that, Mr. Nash instinctively sought Daisy’s opinion again.

“What do you think?”

Daisy nodded. “I think that works.”

She rather approved of the old man’s business sense as well. He was also a man of action, excellent material for a good employee.

After the discussion, dinner was finished too. That very night, Mary began making cookies, while Daisy started taking inventory of the shelves and checking the sales figures again.

Today was the second day since she had officially taken over the business, and the old stock had been cleared out.

The money used to purchase today’s goods had all come from the past two days’ revenue, as well as last week’s sales that had accumulated in the counter drawer.

This round of purchasing had cost a total of five pounds, without touching a single penny of Lisa’s principal.

The income from discount clearance sales over the past few days had been just enough for her to develop the two new products: floral tea and cookies.

Under her precise calculations, there was no possibility of a loss.

Take those sixty bars of soap, for instance. With a purchase price of forty pence, she would not lose money no matter how she sold them.

On the contrary, simply because the soap was just that little bit cheaper, delighted customers would become more willing to buy other goods as well.

Very few people could resist that temptation.

And whenever that happened, their wariness about prices had already vanished completely.
That was how business worked. Hard work alone could earn you a middling return at best; learn to use human nature, and there was money to be made.

Daisy knew the real profits would begin tomorrow.

Before bed that night, she opened the materials she had bought from the paint shop and carefully touched up the outside of the cabinet with a small brush.

Night fell. Through the front door, she could hear the clamor drifting from the underground taverns in Clark Alley, though it was much quieter than yesterday.

A little worn out, Daisy climbed back up to the second floor, used the chamber pot in the tiny storeroom, then climbed back to her attic room.

In that cramped space, narrow as an anthill, she could only wash up simply with hot water and change into a nightgown. Even then, she was in no hurry to sleep.

Daisy sat on the narrow wooden bed, the attic roof just above her head, a thin quilt over her knees as sleet tapped against the glass outside.

A gas lamp hung by her bedside, and in her hands she opened a somewhat battered copy of Whitaker’s Almanack.

The book recorded agricultural activities, holiday customs, and social events from all over England.

Daisy felt that transmigration was rather like starting a new project in a new place.

So, instinctively following the process she used when launching a new project, she first set out to understand London’s current social environment, customs, bureaucracy, and legal boundaries in depth.

The easiest way was to read London’s mainstream newspapers every day, along with dense, information-rich almanacs like this one.

By reading for half an hour before bed every night, she could come to understand more of this world’s finer details and gather information from many angles.

The next morning.

London in early January still looked thoroughly wintry, with sleet drizzling down from the eaves.

Before Mr. Nash and Fred set out, dawn had not yet broken. They put on half-length canvas capes and wide-brimmed rain hats.

Each of them carried a packet of biscuits and pushed an empty cart out the door.

First, they waited at the intersection of Dorothy Street for the dairy farm’s wagon to arrive. They filled up with the milk they had to deliver that day and collected their delivery wages for the week.

The wagon driver from the dairy farm had risen even earlier than they had. He usually set off from Mitcham near South London at three in the morning.

Many businesses on Dorothy Street subscribed to milk deliveries. After the father and son pushed the milk cart over, they split up and got to work.

Carrying heavy metal pails, they knocked on the back doors of small restaurant kitchens. Once the doors opened, they greeted the kitchen staff with practiced familiarity.

…

Lobit Grocery.

On a sleety morning, the streets of East End, London were shrouded in watery mist. Everything was gray and murky, and visibility was less than fifty feet.

Even the newsboy passing by the door in his flat cap looked listless, perhaps sensing that business would not be very good today.

But as George saw it, Mr. Lobit was in a splendid mood.

Yesterday morning, after discovering that Nash Grocery was using discount flyers, he had joined the fight without regard for profit.

Sure enough, in a flurry, he had copied Nash Grocery’s flyer and written out a hundred of his own to hand out at noon.

By evening, nearby neighbors had begun coming in to buy daily necessities.

Yesterday’s results had given him hope. All he had to do was lower the prices, and these old neighbors would rush in to buy up his stock.

As long as the volume went up, Lobit believed he might not necessarily lose money.

More importantly, those customers were also Nash Grocery’s core base.

If Nash Grocery lost these steady old customers, he could probably run them into bankruptcy within a week or two!

By then, he would have one less close competitor, which would greatly benefit his long-term prospects.

Mr. Lobit was extremely pleased with his own boldness.

He casually picked up a honey biscuit George was wrapping on the counter.

After chewing twice, he found it tasted somewhat bitter, as if it had been overbaked.

Mr. Lobit impatiently roared twice toward the upstairs.

In the upstairs kitchen, Mrs. Lobit turned a deaf ear, curled her lip, and continued kneading dough for bread.

She could not even be bothered to sift the flour. She casually mixed in some butter and old sourdough starter, shaped it into a lump, and shoved it into the oven.

Then she fished a cigarette out from the corner and leaned against the door to smoke.

She could not help muttering, “Miser…”

Outside, the sleet was still falling. Mr. Lobit urged George to work faster, then picked up his pocket watch and checked the time.

He expected business to be poor today and was already planning to go back to bed for a second sleep.

Just as his attention wandered, Lobit saw Joel, the owner of the coffee shop on Dorothy Street, step out of his store.

Joel wore a long brown overcoat and carried a pitch-black umbrella as he walked in Lobit’s direction.

Lobit immediately straightened his clothes, intending to personally receive this customer.

Joel’s family had run a cheap coffee shop on Dorothy Street for over a hundred years, and business had always been good. Lobit had asked around and learned that their monthly turnover was in the hundreds of pounds.

He was a wealthy customer. Coming over in such a hurry under an umbrella, he must need to buy something urgent.

Mr. Lobit was utterly convinced of his own judgment. Smiling, he walked to the door, arranged his face into an air of leisure, and drew two cigarettes from his pocket.

Just as he was about to raise his hand, Mr. Joel, still holding his umbrella, nodded to the beaming Lobit, then brushed past him and headed into Clark Alley.

Lobit’s expression and arm both froze in place.

In that instant, he felt as though all of London’s damp had stuck to his clothes. His soles seemed caked with coke dust too, gluing his feet to the ground so he could not lift them. It was excruciatingly awkward.

…