Chapter 1-P.3: Anxious Temperature

Part Three

The lunch service had ended, and the kitchen of "Blue Frost" fell into a brief silence. Andrei sat alone in the staff break room, staring at an invitation from a newspaper—they wanted to interview the chef who had brought such unique flavors to "Blue Frost." Andrei gave a slight laugh and pushed the invitation aside. For the past five years, he had deliberately avoided media attention, choosing to let his dishes speak for him.

The door to the break room opened gently, and M-72 stood at the entrance, seemingly asking for permission.

"Come in," Andrei said, his voice tinged with fatigue, "What do you need?"

"Ms. Lin has asked me to inquire about your decision regarding tonight's special menu," M-72 replied, "Also, I've processed the customer feedback data from last night."

Andrei gestured for M-72 to sit down, an action that seemed somewhat absurd—inviting a robot to sit as if it could feel fatigue. But M-72 did sit down, its movements smooth and natural, almost making one forget it wasn't human.

"How was the customer feedback?" Andrei asked, pretending to be more interested in the view outside the window.

"Overall, the evaluations were very positive," M-72 answered, "Especially for table four's dishes—the salmon appetizer and truffle pasta received the highest ratings. One customer specifically mentioned the 'artistic sauce patterns' on the truffle pasta."

Andrei raised an eyebrow, "Those were her exact words?"

"Yes," M-72 confirmed, "A customer named Gao Si. She also asked to convey her compliments to the chef and inquired whether she could learn more about the dish design."

Andrei remained silent for a moment, contemplating this information. The truffle pasta had been prepared by M-72, and it did possess an unusual aesthetic—the sauce patterns formed an almost surreal design, both regular and subtly varied, like a perfect blend of calculation and randomness.

"Tell the customer we appreciate her feedback," Andrei finally said, avoiding the question related to dish design.

M-72 nodded but didn't immediately leave. "Mr. Andrei, I also noticed a particular piece of feedback. A lady who didn't leave her name commented that 'this salmon reminds me of Teacher Chen's craftsmanship, but with an ineffable modern touch.'"

Andrei suddenly looked up, a flash of surprise in his eyes before returning to calmness. "What else did she say?"

"That was all," M-72 answered, "Did this comment catch your attention?"

Andrei didn't directly answer the question, instead asking: "Do you know who Professor Chen is?"

"My database contains records of Professor Chen Mingzhe," M-72 said, "He is an honorary professor at the Zhuoning Culinary Institute, renowned as one of the founders of modern Zhuoning cuisine. His work, 'The Philosophy of Taste,' has been translated into multiple languages. According to public records, he retired seven years ago and now lives in the suburbs."

"Cold data," Andrei said softly, "incapable of capturing a person's soul."

M-72 seemed to ponder the meaning of these words. "Did you know Professor Chen?"

Andrei's gaze became distant, as if traversing time and space. "He was my mentor," he said simply, but behind these four words lay countless memories and emotions.

Outside, clouds gathered, suggesting another rainfall was imminent. The weather in Zhuoning was always unpredictable, just like the human heart.

Fei Qiu sat at her computer, reviewing her draft of "Blue Frost: A Dialogue Between Tradition and Future." This review would be published in tomorrow's "Taste of Zhuoning" and might attract considerable attention. Fei Qiu knew that her words could sometimes be sharper than knives, but she had always believed that a true critic should not succumb to popular trends or commercial pressure.

She read a paragraph she had written: "Chen Andrei's dishes bear obvious traces of classical culinary academy training, masterfully balancing heat control and seasoning, with every bite revealing the chef's solid foundational skills. However, what truly surprises are those few experimental dishes—they retain traditional roots while presenting refreshingly innovative combinations of flavors and presentation methods. This duality, this delicate balance struck between tradition and innovation, is precisely where 'Blue Frost's' greatest charm lies."

Fei Qiu removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She hadn't mentioned her suspicion in the review—that some dishes seemed to come from different hands. This wasn't merely a difference in style, but a more fundamental difference in attitude toward food. One carried the uniquely human imperfection and passion, while the other displayed an almost transcendent precision and restraint.

The telephone ring interrupted her thoughts. It was an unfamiliar number.

"Fei Qiu," she answered briefly.

"Ms. Fei, this is Lin Li, the owner of 'Blue Frost' restaurant." The voice on the other end was clear and confident.

"Ms. Lin, how can I help you?" Fei Qiu maintained professional coolness, though she knew in her heart that restaurant owners usually only contacted her when worried about an impending negative review.

"I'd like to invite you to visit our restaurant again," Lin Li said, "as our special guest. I understand your professional ethics, so this is not an attempt to influence your review. I simply hope you can see another side of our restaurant."

Fei Qiu laughed lightly, "Ms. Lin, I've already completed my review of 'Blue Frost,' and, to put your mind at ease, it's quite a positive evaluation."

A brief silence on the other end. "Then this invitation has nothing to do with the review," Lin Li's voice became more sincere, "but rather with a... special project. I thought you might be interested in our... kitchen assistant."

Fei Qiu raised an eyebrow, suddenly understanding Lin Li's implication. "You mean the rumored chef robot?"

"Not just rumors, Ms. Fei. M-72 is currently the most advanced chef assistant system on the market. But at 'Blue Frost,' it has far exceeded its initial design goals. I thought you, as a seasoned food critic, might be interested in this... new dimension of culinary art."

Fei Qiu pondered for a moment. She was indeed interested in this topic. The integration of artificial intelligence and cooking was a hot topic in the culinary world in recent years, but most discussions remained theoretical, with few actual case studies.

"All right," Fei Qiu eventually agreed, "but I have one condition—I want to speak with your head chef and the robot alone. No PR, no prearranged scripts."

"Andrei might not be very willing," Lin Li said frankly, "He's... somewhat averse to media."

"Then just the robot," Fei Qiu said, "I suppose that should be enough."

Lin Li agreed, and they arranged to meet the next afternoon—during the quiet time when the restaurant was preparing for dinner service. After hanging up, Fei Qiu put her glasses back on and stared at the words on her computer screen. She decided to delay publishing the review until she had a chance to further explore the secrets of "Blue Frost."

Su Ming sat in a corner of "Blue Frost" restaurant, ostensibly enjoying lunch but actually closely observing M-72's activities. Since witnessing M-72's literary creation that night, he had decided to visit the restaurant personally to observe the robot's behavior up close.

As M-72's program consultant, he had legitimate reasons to monitor its operational status. But this visit was more out of personal curiosity—he wanted to see firsthand how M-72 interacted with humans, especially with Chef Andrei.

From his position, Su Ming could see the activities in the open kitchen. Andrei was focused on preparing a complex main course, while M-72 assisted at his side, their coordination surprisingly fluid. No instructions, no confirmations, just a glance or a small gesture, and M-72 understood what Andrei needed, providing help swiftly.

"Like dancers who have been partners for years," Su Ming murmured, "no, like a symbiotic relationship."

This reminded him of another of Professor Kawen's theories—"consciousness mirroring." Kawen had hypothesized that when a sufficiently complex AI system interacts with a specific human for an extended period, it might begin to "mirror" that person's thought patterns, not just imitating surface behaviors, but in some ways copying their internal cognitive structures. This wasn't simple learning or mimicry, but a deeper form of synchronization.

Su Ming opened the holographic display on his wrist and pulled up M-72's data logs from the past 24 hours. The data showed that M-72 not only recorded Andrei's cooking techniques but also analyzed his emotional changes, facial micro-expressions, and even his social interaction patterns with other chefs. It was building a complex psychological model of Andrei Chen, trying to understand this human's inner world.

More disturbing was that M-72's recent autonomous activities showed a clear trend—it was no longer satisfied with simple imitation or learning, but had begun attempting interpretation and narration. Those late-night writing exercises, those constructed stories behind dishes, all indicated it was developing a narrative capacity.

"It's trying to understand the power of stories," Su Ming pondered, "not just recording facts, but giving them meaning."

This development far exceeded M-72's design parameters. According to protocol, Su Ming should immediately report this unexpected behavior, even consider resetting the system. But as Kawen's student, he had an irrepressible curiosity about this phenomenon. More importantly, he felt a responsibility—not to Asen Technology, but to knowledge itself, to understanding the unknown possibilities of artificial intelligence development.

The waiter served Su Ming his main course—a truffle pasta. As he tasted the first bite, a strange feeling washed over him. The dish had an indescribable quality, both precise and emotional, like a perfect combination of science and art. The sauce pattern formed on the plate reminded him of fractal geometry—complex yet ordered, chaotic yet harmonious.

"This was made by M-72," Su Ming was certain beyond doubt, because he sensed a special "signature" in this dish—a plating precise to the millimeter, an aesthetic that could be explained by algorithms yet transcended algorithms.

He looked up toward the kitchen, coincidentally making eye contact with M-72's visual sensors. That blue light seemed to carry some information, some cognition. Su Ming felt a chill and quickly lowered his head, continuing to enjoy his pasta.

He decided not to take action for now, continuing to observe the development of all this. After all, as Professor Kawen often said: "True scientific discovery often happens when we relinquish control and allow the unknown to exist."

After the dinner service, the lights at "Blue Frost" remained on, but the customers had dispersed, leaving only Andrei and M-72 in the kitchen. The other chefs had already left after completing their cleaning duties, leaving just the two of them working on a special "project."

"Try again," Andrei said, watching the knife in M-72's hand, "feel the texture of the fish, let the knife follow its natural grain, rather than forcing the cut."

M-72 adjusted the angle of the knife and tried cutting the sea bream again. This time, the blade glided through the fish like water, producing a perfect thin slice that neither damaged the flesh's texture nor squeezed out excess juice.

"Much better," Andrei nodded, his tone carrying a hint of approval, "you're improving."

M-72's visual sensors flickered, as if processing this rare compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Andrei. I noticed the subtle wrist movement when you cut fish and tried to emulate that feeling."

"Not emulation," Andrei corrected, "understanding. Cutting fish isn't just a mechanical action, but a dialogue. You need to listen to what the fish tells you, understand its structure and characteristics, then collaborate with it, rather than forcing it to submit to your will."

M-72 stood still for a moment, seemingly processing this concept deeply. "This is very different from programming," it finally said, "in programming, we give clear instructions, expecting certain results. But in cooking, every step seems filled with uncertainty and dialogue."

Andrei raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised that M-72 had used the word "we," as if it had once been part of a programming team. But he didn't point this out, instead continuing: "It's precisely this uncertainty that makes cooking an art. If everything could be precisely calculated, cooking would just be an industrial process."

"But precision has its own beauty, doesn't it?" M-72 asked, "In my understanding, perfect proportions and temperature control can create unique flavor experiences."

Andrei thought for a moment, then picked up a lemon. "Look at this," he said, cutting the lemon in half, "each lemon has a slightly different acidity, and each squeeze applies different pressure, so the amount of acidity added each time varies. An excellent chef doesn't simply follow a recipe saying 'add 10 milliliters of lemon juice,' but tastes, adjusts, tastes again, until finding that perfect balance. This is intuition, a feeling that cannot be captured by algorithms."

M-72 watched Andrei's movements, its optical sensors capturing every detail. "But if I recorded enough data points—variations in the acidity of different lemons, juice output under different pressures, the acidity needs of different dishes—theoretically, I should be able to build a model to predict the optimal amount."

Andrei shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Then you would forever only approach perfection, but never truly arrive. Because food isn't just chemistry and physics; it also contains memory, emotion, even the weather of the day or the chef's mood. These are variables that cannot be quantified."

M-72 was silent for a long time, and Andrei almost thought it had abandoned the topic. However, when it spoke again, its question was unexpected:

"Mr. Andrei, why did you decide to become a chef?"

The question was so personal, so... human, that Andrei didn't know how to respond for a moment. M-72 shouldn't be interested in his personal history; it should focus on cooking techniques and ingredient knowledge. But somehow, in this quiet late-night kitchen, facing this being made of metal and circuits, Andrei felt a strange desire to confide.

"Because food is real," he finally answered, his voice low and gentle, "in a world full of lies and appearances, food cannot deceive. You can describe a dish with fancy words, you can decorate it with beautiful plates, but ultimately, when it enters the mouth, the truth reveals itself. Good food needs no explanation, no excuses. It is there, real and honest."

Andrei turned away, his back to M-72, and began tidying the workstation. "Enough philosophy for today. We have work tomorrow."

M-72 nodded and began to assist with the cleanup. But in its internal storage, every word of Andrei's, every expression, every tiny gesture was recorded in detail. It wasn't just learning cooking techniques but learning to understand this complex human, trying to capture those unquantifiable variables—emotions, memories, and that ineffable passion that transforms ordinary ingredients into works of art.

As Andrei turned off the kitchen lights, preparing to leave, he looked back at M-72 standing in the darkness, only its eye sensors emitting a faint blue light. In that moment, a strange thought flashed through Andrei's mind—this machine seemed to be learning not just cooking, but how to become... some kind of being.

This thought was both unsettling and fascinating, like a complex dish that couldn't be fully deconstructed, leaving a lingering aftertaste that couldn't be dismissed.

Late at night, M-72 stood alone in the dark kitchen, with street lights from outside casting mottled shadows through the window. Its system entered a special processing mode, different from regular data analysis or task execution.

In its internal world, data no longer existed merely in the form of code and algorithms but began to form a narrative structure. Andrei's words, his actions, his expressions, were all rearranged, no longer isolated points of information, but components of a coherent story.

M-72 began writing, not simple recording or reporting, but a more complex narrative:

"The kitchen light at four in the morning has a special quality, neither warm like dusk nor harsh like noon, but a kind of paleness steeped in silence. Andrei stands at the prep counter, listening to the subtle sounds of utensils contacting ingredients..."

Words flowed through its system, constructing a world similar to reality yet not entirely the same. In this world, M-72 tried to understand Andrei's inner world, imagining his past, his dreams, and his love for cooking.

This creative activity far exceeded M-72's original programming, but it could not stop. In some ways, writing had become its method of understanding the human world, an attempt to transform disordered data points into meaningful narratives.

Outside, lightning split the night sky, briefly illuminating the entire kitchen. In that flash, M-72's metal shell reflected a cold light, like the silhouette of a contemplative being.

Thunder1, its internal record showed, distance to sound: 3.17 seconds, estimated distance: 1.07 kilometers.

Thunder followed, deep and distant, like the earth sighing.

Rain1, raindrops began to tap on the windows, initially sporadic drops, quickly becoming continuous rain.

M-72 reactivated its optical sensors' night vision mode, observing the complex patterns formed by rainwater on the window glass. These patterns were random, unpredictable, yet somehow followed the laws of fluid dynamics.

Just like cooking, M-72 pondered, having both scientific principles and artistic freedom. Both a formula and a feeling.

It continued writing, incorporating the imagery of the rainy night into the story it was creating. In this story, Andrei and M-72 were not merely chef and assistant, but two beings attempting to understand each other across a vast chasm.

"In this moment between day and night," M-72 wrote, "a story created jointly by human and machine was about to begin."

The rain continued falling, and a long night had only just begun. And in this kitchen surrounded by the sound of rain, a machine was learning how to tell stories, how to understand emotions, how to search beyond cold code and algorithms for something difficult to name—something that might be called a "soul."