Bakers

In Paris today millions of pounds of bread are sold daily, made during the previous night by those strange, half-naked beings one glimpses through cellar windows, whose wild-seeming cries floating out of those depths always makes a painful impression.
In the morning, one sees these pale men, still white with flour, carrying a loaf under one arm, going off to rest and gather new strength to renew their hard and useful labour when night comes again.
I have always highly esteemed the brave and humble workers who labour all night to produce those soft but crusty loaves that look more like cake than bread.

–Alexandre Dumas.