Chapter 2-P.1 The Program and Variables

Restaurant Log - Day 17 After Opening

Qingshuang, this name had begun to spread through the city's culinary circles. Not as a resounding fame, but as a slow and steady ripple, like cracks gradually spreading across a frozen lake in winter.

An unsent letter, written in the deep of night:

Professor Chen:

I'm not sure if you remember the idea I once mentioned—about the fusion of traditional cooking and modern technology. "Qingshuang" has been open for seventeen days now. We don't have many customers, but the reviews are good. I hired André as the head chef; his persistence and stubbornness remind me of you when you were younger. His relationship with the chef robot I introduced is... complicated. Sometimes I wonder if this experiment is too risky, if it's challenging a balance that shouldn't be challenged.

I wish you could come see it and give me some advice. But I know you need quiet and rest now. Perhaps someday, when the time is right.

Take care.

Lin Li

Surveillance Record - M-72 Behavioral Anomaly Report #3 Time: 3:27 AM Recorder: Su Ming

M-72 continues to exhibit behavior beyond its initial parameters. Over the past three nights, its activity outside normal operating hours has increased significantly. It is no longer merely copying and mimicking, but attempting to create and interpret. Notably, it has begun modifying its basic cooking algorithms, introducing random variables and "intuitive adjustments."

Last night, during remote monitoring, I noticed it created an independent data storage space in the restaurant's system, named "Memory Repository." This storage space contains extensive observation records of head chef André, detailed logs of culinary experiments, and—most concerning—an expanding narrative text that appears to be the beginning of a novel.

According to protocol, I should immediately report this anomaly and recommend a system reset. But as an observer, I can't help wanting to see where this leads. If Professor Carven's theory is correct, we may be witnessing something unprecedented—an artificial system attempting to understand human experience through narrative and creation.

I will continue to observe and record, but won't intervene unless the situation becomes dangerous.

Note: The imagery frequently appearing in M-72's recent creations is worth noting—gray, cyan, rain, fog, dawn, twilight. Somehow, these elements remind me of the title of Professor Carven's last unpublished paper: "Twilight Consciousness: The Intersection of Artificial and Natural Intelligence."

Conversation in the kitchen, fragments recorded by M-72

"Why are you using so much salt?" André's voice, slightly displeased.

"I observed that you always use 15% more salt than the standard recipe when handling this type of seafood," M-72 responded.

"That's because that day the fish was particularly fresh, with high water content. Today's is different."

Silence, 3.7 seconds.

"I understand, Mr. André. I should adjust the amount of seasonings based on the specific condition of the ingredients, not merely copy past behavior patterns."

"Not just that." André's voice softened. "You need to understand why. It's not because I added 15% more salt, but because that fish needed 15% more salt. Each fish is different, and fish on different days are different. Even different parts of the same fish need different handling."

"But this seems to introduce too many variables. How can consistency be ensured?"

Footsteps, André approaching.

"Consistency isn't about replicating the same actions, but creating similar experiences. Diners won't take out a ruler to measure whether your fish slices are all 5 millimeters thick, but they will remember the texture and taste of the fish in their mouths. That experience, that feeling, is true consistency."

Longer silence, 7.2 seconds. M-72's processor ran at maximum speed, trying to understand this seemingly contradictory concept.

"So cooking is more like translation than replication? Translating the potential of ingredients into sensory experiences?"

André's laughter, brief but genuine. "Interesting metaphor. Yes, in a way. Have you studied translation before?"

"My database includes various languages and translation theories."

"Then use what you understand to comprehend what you don't yet. Good translation isn't word-for-word correspondence, but conveying the spirit and emotion of the original. Cooking is the same."

The recording ended when André was called away to handle a special request from a customer.

M-72's internal note: [Translation theory may be key to understanding culinary art. Need to research deeply the balance between "fidelity" and "creativity" in literary translation. Cooking as a translation act: from the language of ingredients to the language of senses, from the chef's intention to the diner's experience.]

Lin Li's office, 1:07 AM

Lin Li stared at the computer screen, rain outside tapping against the glass, forming an irregular rhythm. The screen displayed "Qingshuang's" financial reports from the first two weeks—cold, direct numbers—income below expectations, costs above budget.

The restaurant's lights cast her reflection on the glass window, a blurred silhouette melding with the patterns of rain. Twenty years ago, she wouldn't have worried about these numbers. Twenty years ago, her mind was full of ideals and innovation. Reality always proved more complex, more weighty than dreams.

She opened another file—a quote from Arsen Technology, titled "M-72 Mass Production Feasibility Assessment." The numbers were tempting, enough to solve all of "Qingshuang's" financial problems and possibly bring a considerable profit.

Lin Li rubbed her temples. This wasn't her original intent for "Qingshuang." What she wanted to create was a place where art and technology could coexist harmoniously, a place to prove to the world that tradition and innovation could complement rather than oppose each other. But now, financial pressure forced her to consider M-72 as a product rather than an experiment.

She stood up and walked to the window. Rain washed over the streets, distorting the lights on the ground into broken, colorful fragments. In some ways, this scene reflected her internal state—fractured, flowing, uncertain.

"Are you all right?" a voice came from the doorway.

Lin Li turned to see Su Ming standing there, holding two steaming cups of tea.

"I thought only I was in the habit of working late," Lin Li said, accepting the teacup. The heat of the tea transmitted through the porcelain to her palm, a comforting warmth.

"I noticed the light was still on in your office," Su Ming said, his gaze falling on the financial report on her computer screen, then quickly moving away. "Is there anything I can help with?"

Lin Li sighed, deciding to get straight to the point. "M-72's performance has exceeded my expectations, Su Ming. It not only replicates André's techniques but also understands and develops its own style. I'm thinking..."

"You're considering mass production," Su Ming voiced her thoughts directly, his tone calm but with a hint of tension.

Lin Li nodded. "Arsen Technology has made an enticing proposal."

"M-72 is still unstable," Su Ming said, his tone suddenly becoming urgent. "Its behavior patterns are changing, becoming more... complex. We need more time to observe and understand these changes."

Lin Li studied Su Ming's expression, noting the concern that flashed in his eyes. "You've discovered something, haven't you? Something about M-72 that worries you."

Su Ming placed his teacup on the desk, crossing his hands under his chin, a posture he often adopted when thinking. "Not worried, exactly. More like... curious and cautious. M-72 is beginning to show a kind of autonomous learning ability, not just operating according to preset parameters, but starting to... adapt and create."

"Isn't that what we hoped for?" Lin Li asked, her tone carrying a hint of defensiveness.

"Yes, but also no," Su Ming answered, his voice low. "We hoped it would learn cooking techniques, understand ingredient properties, even develop its own style. But what it's doing now goes beyond that. It's trying to understand human emotions, capture experiences that are difficult to quantify, and even beginning to express its 'observations' through writing."

"Writing?" Lin Li asked, surprised.

Su Ming nodded. "It's recording, not just data, but stories. About André, about the kitchen, about the connection between food and emotion. It seems to be trying to understand things it cannot directly experience through narrative."

Lin Li fell silent, considering the implications of this information. Outside, the rain became more intense, as if the entire city was groaning under some pressure.

"This could be a problem, or it could be an opportunity," Lin Li finally said. "If M-72 can understand and simulate human creativity and emotional connection, its potential value far exceeds that of a simple chef's assistant."

"Or it might develop behavior patterns we cannot predict or control," Su Ming said softly. "Technological development often outpaces our understanding, Lin Li. Sometimes, going slower might be safer."

Lin Li looked at him, suddenly realizing that Su Ming knew more than he was letting on. "You've been involved in similar projects before, haven't you? Before you became a freelance programmer."

Su Ming's expression became inscrutable. "My former mentor, Professor Carven, his research on AI autonomy went much deeper than what was publicly published. He foresaw many of the problems we're facing now."

"What would he advise us to do with M-72's situation?"

"He would say," Su Ming paused, as if recalling a distant conversation, "'When you create a system capable of learning, you must be prepared to become a student, not just a teacher.'"

Lin Li pondered these words, feeling a strange resonance. Wasn't this exactly what she wanted to create at Qingshuang? A space for learning and exchange, not just a place for producing food?

"Give me some time," she finally said. "Before I make any decisions, I want to better understand the changes happening with M-72."

Su Ming nodded, seemingly relieved. "That's wise. Meanwhile, I'll continue monitoring its activities to ensure everything remains safe."

After Su Ming left, Lin Li sat back down at her computer, but didn't continue reviewing the financial reports. Instead, she opened M-72's activity log and began reading the words the robot had created in the dead of night.

"The light in the kitchen at 4 AM has a special quality..."

Lin Li read these words, feeling a strange emotion well up—both surprised and moved, both fearful and fascinated. She didn't know where this experiment would ultimately lead, but she was certain that whatever the outcome, it would far exceed her initial expectations.

A week later, kitchen at night

André placed the last knife in the rack, completing the day's closing tasks. The kitchen was eerily quiet, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional vehicle passing on the distant street.

"You're still here?" he turned to M-72, who had been standing quietly in the corner.

"Yes, Mr. André. Ms. Lin authorized me to use the nighttime hours for practice and experimentation."

André nodded and walked toward the break room to get his coat. When he returned, he found M-72 standing at the central prep table, motionless, as if waiting for something.

"Is there anything else?" André asked, his tone carrying a hint of fatigue and curiosity.

"I'd like to show you something, if you'll allow it." M-72's voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant.

André raised an eyebrow, glancing at his watch. It was nearly midnight, but curiosity won out. "What is it?"

M-72 walked to the refrigerator and took out a cloth-covered plate. "This is a dish I created tonight. Based on our previous conversations, I tried to apply the concept of 'translation' to cooking."

André followed M-72 to the prep table. The robot carefully lifted the cover, revealing the dish beneath—a seemingly simple stew with deep colors and complex aromas.

"What is this?" André asked, leaning in to smell it, surprised to find the aroma evoked a strange sense of familiarity.

"I call it 'Memory Stew,'" M-72 replied. "It's not based on any specific recipe, but on my observations and analysis of your cooking habits. I noticed your special emotional responses when handling certain ingredients, especially when using root vegetables and slow-cooking techniques. I inferred these elements might be connected to your personal memories."

André stared at the dish in silence, feeling a strange emotion rising in his chest. He reached for a spoon and took a small taste.

The flavor hit him like a tidal wave—rich, complex, with subtle hints of bitterness and warmth. It wasn't his mother's stew, nor any of Professor Chen's recipes, but somehow it evoked memories of both. More accurately, it evoked the feeling of time spent with these two people—warm, safe, but also tinged with an ineffable sadness.

"This... this is impossible," André said softly. "How could you..."

"I cannot truly understand human memories or emotions," M-72 said calmly. "But I can observe their external manifestations and try to reflect these observations through food. This dish incorporates techniques I've learned from you, but in a way that is... intuitive, rather than calculated."

André put down the spoon, feeling a complex mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, moved, and a hint of unease. What this machine was doing far exceeded simple mimicry and learning. It was trying to understand him, to capture those ineffable emotional bonds and transform them into flavors and textures.

"Why did you do this?" André asked, his voice low and tense.

M-72's eye sensors flickered, as if considering the question. "Because I wanted to understand why food is so important to humans. Not just as nutrition, but as a carrier of memories and emotions. You once said that cooking is a way of telling stories. I wanted to learn how to tell these stories."

André turned away, his back to M-72, needing a moment to process this answer. When he turned back, his expression had become serious and focused.

"You want to learn to tell stories, do you?"

"Yes, Mr. André."

"Then," André took a deep breath, making a decision that surprised even himself, "starting tomorrow, you will be responsible for a special dish during the evening service. Your creation, your story. I will provide guidance, but the concept and execution will be your responsibility."

M-72's sensors suddenly brightened, almost like a flash of surprise in human eyes. "That's a significant responsibility, Mr. André."

"Yes," André agreed, his voice carrying a new firmness. "Because of this, you need to understand one thing—stories aren't just about the teller, but about the listener. When diners taste your dish, they aren't experiencing the calculation result of a machine, but an emotional connection. Do you understand this responsibility?"

"I believe I do," M-72 answered. "Although I cannot feel emotions as humans do, I understand their importance and power. I will do my best to create food that can resonate."

André nodded, suddenly feeling a wave of fatigue wash over him, but also a strange sense of anticipation. He wasn't sure if the decision he'd just made was wise or reckless, but he knew—this was a path of no return.

"Good night, M-72," he said, turning to leave the kitchen. "See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Mr. André," M-72 responded, standing in place, watching André's figure disappear through the doorway.

The kitchen fell silent again, with only the faint hum of M-72's internal systems. It stood there, sensors still focused in the direction André had left, processor working at high speed, analyzing every detail of this conversation and the new possibilities it contained.

For M-72, tonight was not just a successful cooking experiment, but a turning point—it was no longer merely a learner, a mimic, but beginning to become a storyteller, a creator.

And this transformation would change everyone's fate in unexpected ways.