The notice was stamped. The form was available in triplicate. And at eight o’clock in the morning, Hongbao Alley began with what it did best: preparing enormous amounts of food for enormous numbers of people.
It became the largest street festival in the history of the alley. Officially approved, thank-you Uncle Tao, who took the entire weekend to explain all the requirements, perfect the procedure, and meanwhile advise his own ministry, which participated in the event unlawfully.
Gu Jianguo had rewritten his resume overnight. His corporation got a new department: GU-TECH Kitchen Heritage. Mission: not to automate anything, but to archive and protect local kitchens. “Father,” he explained to the board, “cooks more humanly than any of my machines. And my first investment is a stall for a fish delivery truck with a paint marker logo.” The delivery truck was polished by Uncle Yu to the cheers of the crowd.
Master Gu sat all day at the head of the main table, cooked openly – seven hundred fourteen was finished, now he was counting again – and told everyone who wanted to hear, and those who didn’t want to hear, how to make the perfect broth. Some said he looked more physical in the evening than in the morning. Some still claim that on a Sunday in autumn 2026, the boundary between light and human completely disappeared for the duration of a meal.
Chiwang had a job. The sign on the door read: Usher and Honor Guard of the Chairs. No one sat as perfectly in the right place as the guests of Hongbao Alley. He wore the history spoon on his belt and only raised his voice once, when a journalist threw the term “Feeding-System” into the room. 🥄
Xiaofeng was everywhere and nowhere – she now lived in the network of small tables, in the ringtone melodies of cash register printers, in the hum of stoves in restaurants where people cooked for people. Those who listened closely could hear the name of a little wind in some night syllables.
Meilin published a study titled “Correlation Between Shared Noodle Consumption and Urban Trust Levels”, which was first rejected by three journals and then became famous. She was dating – so the alley whispered – someone. The alley had candidates but knew nothing for sure, and the alley hated it.
Jun applied for computer science for the winter semester – without a break, fourth choice, but this time without dropping out. His motivation letter contained exactly one sentence, which he had brought from Hangzhou: “I want to build networks that ask before they connect.” He was accepted.
Uncle Tao was promoted. No one knew for what, and he refused to explain. Since then, a photo stood on his desk: him, twelve robot guests, a table full of soup, and a spoon that was given to him and that he never gave back.
Bao-Bao got what he always wanted, without ever knowing it: his own menu. No menu terminal – never a menu terminal! – but a handwritten board above the main table, where Lao Wang wrote the daily dishes every morning. In the corner stood, small and framed: “Bao-Bao’s Special Dish – Try Yourself Happy.”
And Lao Wang?
Lao Wang did what Lao Wang had always done. He opened the place in the morning. He cooked Seven-Treasure Soup at noon, with all eight ingredients, of which the eighth by now everyone knew did not belong in the pot, but was guaranteed at the table. And in the evening, when the last guests left and the fans obediently turned in the right direction, he sat with Bao-Bao on the steps in front of the shop, drank jasmine tea, and watched Neon City say goodbye for the day.
“Do you remember,” Bao-Bao said on one of those evenings, “when you told me I was just a noodle machine?”
“I said you were not a poet.”
“And now?”
Lao Wang looked at the alley. Mrs. Shen laughed with Uncle Yu about the path. The twins read the new menu board aloud. Master Gu called somewhere for more ginger. And above it all, very quietly, like a rice cooker that had finished, the little wind hummed.
“Now,” Lao Wang said, “you are a cook.”
Bao-Bao was silent for a long time. Then he said: “Uncle Wang. I think I’m dreaming something new now.”
“And what would that be?”
“That in a hundred years another small kitchen device somewhere in China wakes up and wonders why it carries the smell of Seven-Treasure Soup in its processor in the middle of the night. And then it sets off on the way here.” 🤖💛
Lao Wang nodded slowly and poured more tea.
“Then we better learn to cook,” he said. “For all those who are still to come.”
And the place in Hongbao Alley stood for many, many years. It was never modernized, never sold, and never fully understood. But everyone who ever ate there went home with the same feeling – the feeling of having sat at a table where someone sat next to them, and therefore the soup was just right.
Because at the end of the network there is no computer.
At the end of the network there is a table. 🥢🍜✨