Chapter 204

At daybreak, Sha Zhu was squatting at the back Kitchen door of the cafeteria, a piece of paper clenched in his hand, its crooked lines of numbers. He stared at it for a long time, his mouth corner slowly turning up.

"Really saved twenty percent?" he muttered to himself, "the rice jar didn't move, the Meal Ticket amount stayed the same, the vegetables didn't decrease—this iron gadget really works."

Yesterday evening, the stir‑fry machine ran continuously for the first time. Before leaving, Zhao Jianguo left an interface, saying it could let the machine judge the heat and adjust oil and salt on its own. Sha Zhu, half‑believing, pressed the start button and left the power on all night. This morning, when the pot was opened, the aroma of Meal Ticket still drifted out of the Courtyard, yet the leftover rice bucket hadn't gained a single extra scrap.

He Standing Up, patted his trousers, and headed straight for the Street Office.

The Street Office director was drinking tea in the office when he heard the news and nearly knocked the enamel jar off the ground. "What are you saying? A machine that cooks can still save grain?"

"Absolutely true," Sha Zhu handed over the notebook in his hand, "Yesterday thirty jin of rice, today only twenty‑four were used; everyone ate their fill, no one complained."

The director flipped through several pages, his brows furrowing tighter, then suddenly grinned, "Fine, this can go on the briefing report."

An hour later, the Red Flag Cafeteria entrance rang with gongs and drums. The Street Office director arrived with two officials, bearing a red silk brocade flag. In gold thread were embroidered eight large characters: "Technology Saves Grain, Model for the Whole Street."

"Comrades!" the director stepped onto the steps, his voice raised high, "Red Flag Cafeteria introduced new equipment, saving six jin of grain a day! This is a genuine contribution to the nation!"

The Siheyuan residents formed a circle. Some nodded, some muttered.

San Daye stood at the back of the crowd, sliding an abacus in his hand, muttering, "Saving grain is good, but if the Meal Ticket has no flavor, the savings are useless."

Old Li beside him replied, "Exactly, my grandson ate a bowl yesterday and said the vegetables were like soaked in water, with no vigor at all."

When the words reached Sha Zhu's ears, he stayed silent, only bowing his head to watch the stir‑fry machine. Its stainless‑steel shell gleamed, the pot body flipped automatically, oil splashed out with a whooshing sound, the movements were very crisp.

But he knew something was missing.

At noon, the meal revealed all the problems.

The fish‑flavored shredded pork was served; the color was correct, but a chopstick lifted a piece and the meat was limp, without a seared edge or wok‑aroma. A few veteran diners took two bites, set down their chopsticks, and left. An old man slapped the table, "This is not stir‑fry, it's boiled!"

Some even returned their meals.

Sha Zhu silently collected the bowls, returned to the Kitchen and sat, waiting until nightfall.

At eleven at night, the cafeteria lights were still on. He sat on a small stool, with an operation Screen before him. It was the "Home Smart Control" panel Zhao Jianguo left, capable of inputting numbers and modifying programs.

He stared at the Screen, his mind replaying thirty years of wielding the ladle.

A fierce flame ignites the pot, oil begins to smoke; the ladle must be tossed quickly, the wrist applying deft force; when the heat is right, splash cooking wine immediately, letting the aroma surge upward.

The machine cannot do these.

He gritted his teeth and began inputting parameters into the system.

"Increase stir‑fry speed by three levels."

"Raise oil temperature to maximum, maintain for ninety seconds."

"Ten seconds before serving, boost the flame, simulating a \"blast‑stir‑fry\"."

The trickiest part is the "toss‑ladle". The machine has no hands, it can only shake the pot with a motor. He tried five rhythms, finally choosing one with a pause—slow then fast, with a sudden halt in the middle, like a wrist flick.

After revising once, he pressed the test button.

The pot body jolted violently, oil droplets "Pop!" onto the wall. The flame "Whoosh!" leapt high, burned a circle along the pot rim, then quickly fell back.

The first test pot was shredded pork with green peppers.

The meat slices entered, instantly curling at the edges, oil gleaming. The green peppers were crisp‑tender, edges slightly charred. In the final second, a blast of high flame caused the whole Kitchen to "Boom—" with a burst of roasted aroma.

Sha Zhu lifted the pot lid, grabbed a piece of meat, and put it into his mouth.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the corners of his eyes were a bit wet.

"Done."

At five thirty the next morning, Sha Zhu rebooted the machine. This time he stood by the side, answering no one's questions, only watching the serving outlet.

At six o'clock sharp, the first breakfast came out.

Scallion‑filled flatbread with spicy chicken cubes. The chicken cubes were crisp outside, tender inside; a bite produced a "Crack!" crisp sound. The aroma drifted fifty meters downwind.

Old Wang, who sold tofu pudding at the Hutong entrance, twitched his nose, "Who started cooking so early?"

By the time he pushed his cart to the cafeteria entrance, the line had already turned two corners.

"What's going on?" he asked the leading young lady.

"The newly fried chicken cubes are devilishly fragrant," the girl swallowed, "I heard the machine was upgraded last night, now it's just like Sha Zhu's hand‑made version."

Old Wang, skeptical, tiptoed to peek inside. He saw Sha Zhu standing at the pot, hand on the Control Console, his face showing no emotion.

Another pot came out, Kung Pao chicken cubes. The peanuts were fried crisp, the chilies bright red, the pot bottom drizzled sauce with a "Sizzle!" and the entire Hutong fell silent for a moment.

San Daye, leaning on his cane, slowly walked over and stopped at the tail of the line. He said nothing, only tilted his head back to sniff the air.

Then silently pulled out a Meal Ticket box and slipped it into the line.

At noon, the Street Office director returned.

This time he didn't bring a brocade flag, but carried a thermos. "My wife insisted I come to taste it, saying the newspaper ran it: 'Red Flag Cafeteria's machine replicates traditional wok‑aroma.'"

Sha Zhu was wiping the stove, looked up and smiled, "Try it and you'll see whether it's bragging or not."

The director served a bowl of rice and a piece of sweet‑and‑sour spare ribs. The moment he bit it, his eyes widened.

"Oh! This sweet‑sour flavor… and that caramel crust, crackle‑crackle, exactly like what I ate as a child!"

He ate sweating profusely, and before leaving patted Sha Zhu's shoulder, "Your place truly hides dragons and crouching tigers."

Sha Zhu escorted him to the door, then turned back to see San Daye carrying an empty Meal Ticket box and walking out.

An old man passing by stopped, whispered, "I recalculated the abacus; saving grain and tasting good—that's the real skill."

After speaking, he turned and left.

Sha Zhu stood in place, watching the stir‑fry machine still running. The pot body swayed rhythmically, the flames leapt with the commands, as if it had a breath.

At nine at night, he was about to shut down the machine when his watch suddenly vibrated.

Looking down, a line of text popped up on the Screen:

"Cooking proficiency rating reached 85% | Amateur Gourmet title unlocked"

He froze, then burst into laughter.

"Can this thing still be rated?"

He raised his hand to dismiss the prompt, and casually touched the machine's outer shell. It was hot, just like the bottom of a pot fresh off the stove.

At 3 a. m., the Siheyuan grew quiet. Only a little light seeped out from the rear window of the cafeteria.

Sha Zhu didn't sleep. He sat in front of the operation console, flipping through the newly written parameter manual page by page. The paper was covered in arrows and numbers, and in the corner he had doodled a few little figures demonstrating the "wok-tossing" motion.

As he looked, he muttered softly: "Next time add a 'return-to-pot' function, so leftover veggies won't get dry even after heating three times... and let the machine learn to smell odors, automatically shutting off if it burns..."

The pen tip paused, and he wrote a sentence on the last page:

"The machine is dead, the heart is alive—as long as we don't slack off, it can also learn 'wok hei'."

He closed the notebook, got up, and turned off the light.

Just as his hand touched the switch, a sound of footsteps came from outside the window.

He turned his head, and saw a figure standing by the coal basket, holding a small notebook, head down, writing something.

Sha Zhu narrowed his eyes and opened the window.

That person immediately turned around, walked away quickly, and disappeared at the alley entrance.