Christmas Dinner at Fritzi’s Home

Fritzi and her brother were at the table when Woes arrived.

“Ah, there you are at last,” his mother said. “I was just about to serve the soup. Sit next to your
Uncle Hugo.”

Woes received a firm ruffle on his head from his uncle. “Hey bud, good to see you.”

“Hey Uncle Hugo, how was your flight?”

Fritzi poured clear vegetable broth.

“Hugo, you’ve lost weight! Have you been on a diet?”

“No, diets don’t work for me. I got an implant.” He lifted his baseball cap revealing a small device
screwed into his skull.

“It prevents me from overeating. It sends signals to my brain blocking the pleasurable sensations
when I eat fat or sugar,” Hugo explained.

“That’s remarkable. I didn’t even know that existed,” said Fritzi.

“I’m one of the first to get this implant. When Synaptica—the company I work for —developed this
application, I immediately signed up as a test subject. We originally designed it for patients with
paralysis, but we’re discovering it can be used for so much more. It can help the deaf and blind
people, cure severe depression, and, as in my case, help obese patients overcome their eating
disorders. It also cured me of my drinking problem.”

“That’s incredible, Hugo.”

Hugo turned to Woes. “How’s my nephew Woes doing? Still working on interesting art projects?”

“Yeah, I’m working on a futuristic dinner concept. It’s a dinner where people are served 100%
artificial food combined with a multi-sensory experience using light, sounds, and scent diffusers
that alter taste perception.”

“Sounds interesting. Where can I experience this dinner?”

“It’ll be at Green Dream Art Gallery, in March.”

Hugo took a small sip of his wine and made a sour face.

“Will you send your uncle an invitation?” asked Fritzi.

“Yes, send me an invite. I probably won’t eat, but I’d love to watch.”

Fritzi placed the main course on the table: rolled pork roast with rich gravy, oven-roasted potatoes
with rosemary, and green beans.

“I hope you’ll like it. The roast cost me a fortune”

“Mom!” groaned Woes. “Why do you do this every year? I’m not going to eat this.”

“Don’t be so difficult. It’s Christmas, and your uncle is here so rarely. I wanted to serve something
special. You love a traditional Dutch Christmas meal, don’t you, Hugo?”

Hugo took a small bite.

“I have to say, I enjoy fatty Dutch food a lot less than I used to, thanks to the implant.”

“And I’m against imported green beans,” Woes added. “Don’t you know they deplete Kenya’s
farmlands for our beans, while the local population is starving?”

“You haven’t lost your idealism,” Hugo noted, “But your mother put a lot of effort into this, and it’s
hard to find fresh ingredients these days.”

“Why do we need fresh ingredients?” Woes countered. “We’re destroying the planet with our
hunger for fresh vegetables, milk and meat. We should be eating artificially produced food.”

“Real food tastes much better than artificial food,” his mother objected.

“Only because you’re used to it. We need to learn to appreciate it.” And turning to Hugo, he added,
“That’s what my work is about too.”

Disappointed, Fritzi cleared the still-full plates. Hugo had picked out a few green beans but had
barely touched the roast or potatoes.

“Luckily, you still have room for dessert.” She placed three cups of chocolate mousse on the table.
“You can’t possibly have any objections to this, Woes, because it’s made from chocolate substitute.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find real chocolate.”

Hugo took a bite and gagged. “Sorry, my implant doesn’t seem to agree with it.”

“That’s really sad, that you can’t enjoy food anymore,” Fritzi said.

“You don’t know how much I long to go to a Michelin-starred restaurant again and devour a seven-
course meal—or just eat a good burger. Well, I never had your refined tastebuds anyway.”

“Couldn’t the implant be programmed to trick you into thinking you’re eating something delicious
while you stick to your diet of lettuce and water?” Woes asked.

“That would be fantastic,” said Hugo.

“I’ve been toying with an idea for a virtual restaurant, like some sort of video game. Combined with
an implant like yours, you would believe you’re eating real food.”

“I see potential in that. There’s definitely a market for it. Synaptica might fund a prototype.”

“I can design the restaurant and the dishes, but I wouldn’t know how to create such an implant.”

“There are ways to adapt existing implants. I know someone at Synaptica who can do that. If I ever
experience weird side effects from my implant—if something shifts and the wrong brain cells get
stimulated—she fixes it. She’s around your age, and incredibly smart.”

“What’s her name? Maybe she’d like to come to Woes’ presentation.” Fritzi suggested.

“Marika. Send me the invitation, and I’ll forward it.”

“Thank you so much, Uncle Hugo! You’ve inspired me enormously. I’m starting on this right
away.”

 

In Green Dream Art Gallery

Fritzi and Hugo attended Woes’ performance together. The space was set up like a futuristic
laboratory. In the center of the room stood tables with stainless steel plates soldered to computers,                  roughly welded robots, and undefinable devices with bundles of electrical wires. Bright, colour-
changing lights cast a theatrical glow over the installation. Fritzi noticed an old colleague from the                newspaper, taking notes.

Woes had been working on “artificial food” for years, collaborating with chefs and biochemists to
create lab-based flavours. He had hosted dinners made exclusively from artificial ingredients. The
newspapers had written about it, but aside from a small group of enthusiasts, it had never really
caught on with the general public. The performers were led to the tables, when grinding mechanical
noises blared from the speakers.

Hugo spotted Marika. “Hey, Marika, come sit with us! This is Fritzi, my sister. And over there, the
handsome guy behind the computer—that’s my nephew Woes.”

Fritzi shook Marika’s hand. “Woes is my son, the artist behind all this.”

A loud bang, smoke, strobe lights—the performance began.

Afterward, Woes approached them. Marika thought he looked like an anarchist or hacker with his
black hoodie, combat boots, and hair falling over his eyes.

“So, what did you think?” Woes asked Marika after Hugo introduced them.

“That was … intriguing,” Marika said, choosing her words carefully. “But I didn’t really get it. I
work with computer chips and AI models. Art’s not really my field.”

“It’s about the future of our food,” Woes explained.

“And how do you see that future?”

“In the future, we’ll eat 100% lab-produced food so we can return agricultural land to nature. My                  performance explores how sensory stimuli can manipulate taste.”

“I read that on your flyer. But what does that have to do with my work? Hugo said you wanted to
collaborate.”

“You scientists hesitate to see your findings in a broader context. We can do so much more than just
collect dry data. You lack vision!”

Marika blinked in surprise.

He stood before her with his legs apart, waving his arms animatedly. “Look,” he began, “your
research could revolutionize eating. A new way of food production, that will save the world. YOU
can save the world!” He shook her by the shoulders.

Marika stepped back.

He laughed. “I’m just messing with you. Can I buy you a coffee and explain?”

The four of them walked to the buffet.

“I’ll take a bottle of remineralised water,” Hugo said.

“Try this.” Woes handed Marika a cup of hot liquid from the machine. “It barely resembles coffee.”

“Because there are hardly any coffee plantations left.” Marika replied.

“Right! We’ve got the technology to recreate coffee in a lab — so why do we still drink this
garbage? Just because it’s natural?

Marika took a sip of the watery brew.

“The same goes for cocoa, sugar, chili peppers—even cheese and meat. But people don’t want it.
And why not?”

“Because it’s less healthy…?”

“Bullshit! Studies prove it’s just as healthy—or even healthier.”

She actually knew that.

“We cling desperately to the food we know, and in the meantime, we’re fucking up our planet.” As
he spoke, his hair swung from side to side in front of his eyes. “We can’t keep destroying the
Amazon to grow soy for livestock or wasting drinking water to cultivate avocados, oranges, and
cashews in the deserts of Chile and California. If we extract these flavours from artificial aromas,
we can return most of the world’s farmland to nature. We don’t need nature for our nutrients—
proteins, vitamins, amino acids, aromas—we can create everything ourselves.”

Marika nodded.

“You work with brain simulation, right?” Woes asked, “We could boost taste experiences by
stimulating the right cells in the brain. Imagine—we could make it so irresistible they’d never want
anything else!”

“Taste is more than just molecules,” Marika said. “Texture, presentation, and our expectations—it’s
quite complex.”

“If you expect to taste awful fake food, you won’t like it anyway,” Fritzi added.

“Exactly! That’s why we need to manipulate all those elements,” Woes said. “In an unfamiliar
setting, people are more open to new flavours.”

“That’s true.” Hugo said.”When I was in Cambodia and Peru, I ate things I wouldn’t even recognise
—and I loved them. Seeing locals eat without hesitation makes you curious enough to try.”
“If we only ate what we already knew, we’d still be eating nothing but hutspot in the Netherlands,”
Woes said.

“But what is left to discover in this globalised world?” Fritzi asked. “You can find a Tibetan, Sámi,
or Congolese restaurant on every corner.”

“A Tuvaluan café opened near me recently,” Marika noted. “Kind of macabre if you ask me, since
Tuvalu itself has already sunk.”

Woes took a sip of coffee and thought for a moment.

“The only place where we can still expect new things is the Metaverse.”
Marika found this project increasingly exciting. And Woes wasn’t as annoying as she first thought.

“Ok, how can I help?”

“Can you train an AI model to recognise flavours?”

“I think so. The technology exists.”

“My idea is to record one person’s taste experiences and then replay them in someone else’s mind.”

“With Synaptica’s brain implant, that should be possible.” Hugo interrupted, “I already told Woes
that they’ll fund the research.”

“I can use the MRI scanner at my lab.” Marika said, “We’d scan a test subject eating different
ingredients, train an AI to map the brain activity, and build a flavour database.”

“Fantastic! Train the AI with the best dishes ever!” Woes exclaimed.

“Where do I get these dishes? I’m not a great cook.”

“Fritzi is!” Hugo said, “She should also be your test subject—she’s a super-taster! She can identify
even the most obscure spices with a single bite,”

“Fritzi, if you’re willing, you could come to my lab.”

 

In the Supermarket

“Do I even want my brain to be scanned?” Fritzi hesitated in the supermarket. Around her,
customers shuffled about aimlessly, phones in hand or wearing XR glasses. They likely saw
colourful discount offers floating in the air, cartoon characters guiding them to the ready-made
meals, virtual chefs giving preparation tips, and interactive nutritional value charts. Some stopped
mid-aisle, mesmerised by the images invisible to Fritzi. It often seemed as if they were frozen in
place, staring at a ghostly apparition. Others would stand for minutes, scanning a cereal box or a
packet of instant sauce with their phones.

Fritzi refused to participate in this modern nonsense. Without augmented filters, it was painfully
obvious how empty the supermarket was. Shelves were filled with flashy packaging, but they all
contained the same things: modified starch, palm fat, glucose, preservatives and artificial flavours.
She walked over to the small section of fresh fruits and vegetables, carefully dodging the
bespectacled zombies in her way. The selection was sparse once again: a few watery cucumbers,
overpriced tomatoes, massive eggplants, rubber zucchini, and plastic bell peppers—but no onions or
cabbage. The potatoes looked dusty and wrinkled. Well, at least there were potatoes. The previous
year’s harvests had been so bad that potatoes had been unavailable for an entire year. When was the
last time she had found a juicy apple or a mandarin? It was all greenhouse-grown and outrageously
expensive. Ever since the outbreak of cattle plague, real cheese had become nearly impossible to
find. She reluctantly picked up a piece of plant-based cheese and made her way to the self-checkout.
She admired how her son could look at the future with such optimism. All she saw was decline:
higher prices, scarcer fresh food. The food industry masked it’s blandness behind a thick layer of
digital illusion.

Once, she had been a respected food critic, but influencers and AI had taken over. She didn’t regret
it. There wasn’t much positive to write about the food desert the country had become.

But Woes didn’t see things so grimly. He believed that technology could turn the tide, and she
wanted to support him. Her obsession with natural food, made her part of the problem, but she was
a dying breed. It was clear that most people had no aversion to industrial food.

Back in her kitchen, she placed the bag of wrinkled potatoes and the fake cheese on the counter. She
would help her son. She would offer her brain to science—for a better future. She sent Marika a
message.

 

In the Laboratory

Fritzi arrived at Marika’s lab carrying bags of home-cooked food.

“Let me help you with those bags, Fritzi.” Marika said, “The lab is on the other side of the
building.” They walked through the long hallways.

“I’m really curious to see what your brain scans will reveal. Now we’ll find out if a super-taster truly
exists!”

Marika led Fritzi to a large MRI scanner.

“You’ll have to lie down in here and stay still, as we scan your brain.”

“How am I supposed to eat?” Fritzi asked.

“Through a straw. Let me see what delicious things you’ve prepared.”

Fritzi unpacked the food. “Fresh ravioli with a ricotta-spinach filling, served with a creamy porcini                      sauce. It was supposed to have pistachios, but I couldn’t get any. Sweet potatoes in a tomato-
cardamom sauce, apfelstrudel and lima beans in chipotle oil.”

“It smells amazing! Mind if I try some later?”

“I would’ve made more, but it’s expensive.”

“We’ll ask Hugo to supply ingredients next time. It’s just another business expense for him.”

Marika helped Fritzi into the MRI scanner. “Are you comfortable? Shall we start with the ravioli?”

Marika dumped it into the blender.

“You’re pureeing it?!”

“It won’t go through the straw otherwise.”

“I spent two hours rolling that dough…”

The machine hummed loudly as Fritzi sipped the pureed meals. Marika monitored the graphs
appearing on her screen.

“You did great. We’ve gathered beautifully clear data on your taste perception. Let’s continue next
week with some meat dishes.”

As they walked out, Marika confessed Woes had asked her out on a date. Fritzi wasn’t surprised—
she had already suspected that Woes’ interest wasn’t purely professional.

In the following months, Fritzi saw little of her son. He was busy designing the virtual restaurant or
he was with Marika. Occasionally, he came to the lab when they did the scans. Afterward, they ate
the leftovers together. When Woes was there, he would feed his mother so Marika could keep
monitoring the data.

Later, when I’m old and senile, will he feed me like this too? Fritzi thought wistfully.
In the Virtual Restaurant

Woes’ restaurant design was ready for a first test run. Fritzi and Hugo would visit it simultaneously
—Fritzi from home, assisted by Woes and Marika with the VR set up, and Hugo from California.
Fritzi insisted Hugo would join her; the prospect of navigating the virtual world alone made her
anxious.

Woes and Marika carried the heavy VR equipment and food up to Fritzi’s apartment.

“What a machine,” Fritzi said. “And all these cables. You need to help me with this. I can lard a
lamb shoulder or make a perfect soufflé, but I don’t know the first thing about computers.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll guide you.” He laid out the pre-cooked dishes on the countertop.
Marika placed the heavy headset on her head. “Comfortable ?”

Fritzi let out a little scream as the display lit up in her goggles. A glowing grid extended beneath
her, stretching out beyond the horizon. She turned her head in all directions and felt weightless.

“Better sit down,” Marika advised. “It’s easy to lose your balance in virtual space.”

“Looks like everything is working,” Woes said.

“As you experience the virtual dishes, I’ll serve you real bites that match them. I hope you enjoy it
—we’ve brought in a professional chef. For now, everything is made with natural ingredients, but
once connected to the implant, it’ll be entirely lab-grown.”

“We’re starting the game now!”

Suddenly, Fritzi found herself in a pixelated desert under blocky clouds.

Woes and Marika watched along on their monitor, guiding Fritzi.

“Don’t focus too much on the landscape quality; it’s still under construction. See that building?

That’s the restaurant. Head toward it.”

Fritzi looked down at a pair of muscular legs. Her virtual hands mirrored her real ones.

“You can move using the controller you see on the screen.”

Fritzi tried to make her avatar walk. She suddenly surged forward a few steps and stopped. Another
two steps and a jump in place. Her footsteps landed loudly in the sand. She had twisted mid-jump.
Now she was walking sideways. She tried to turn back—oops, wrong direction. Another jump and
she was facing the right way again. Without stumbling, she made her way straight toward the
restaurant.

“Look! I can walk!”

“Great, Mom, welcome to the 21st century. I knew you’d get the hang of it. Half the world’s
population does this daily, so why wouldn’t you?”

Fritzi reached a rusty iron door with a small window and brass doorknob. She had the feeling she
recognised the door from a movie she had watched as a child.

“Go inside. You’ll meet Hugo there.”

A stern waiter gestured her to enter.

“Reservation?”

“Uh… I don’t think so…”

The waiter led her out of the dark hallway into a grand dining hall with a high ceiling, softly
illuminated by chandeliers and dim lamps. The walls were covered in dark red velvet, with thick
draped curtains hanging over the windows. Round tables, draped in pink tablecloths, were set with
tall crystal wine glasses and gleaming silverware. None of the dining guests looked her way as the
silent waiter led her to a table in the center of the dining room. A soft murmur of voices and the
civilised clinking of cutlery against plates created a gentle background hum.
She glanced behind her at the dark hallway, wondering if Hugo was following.

“Waiter, I’m expecting my brother. He said he’d meet me here.”

Woes and Marika watched. Where was Hugo?

“Should I call him?” Marika whispered to Woes. “Here, take the spoon and feed Fritzi when the first
dish arrives.”

The waiter stared motionlessly ahead.

“Is this even the right table?” she wondered, scanning the dining room for him.

Marika returned. “Hugo had trouble logging in. He’s in the game now, but is sitting alone at another
table. It looks like they’re in separate sessions,” she whispered.

“Should we restart?”

“Hugo says to continue.”

The waiter refocused on Fritzi’s avatar.

“We will serve the first course shortly.” He then disappeared from view.

He soon returned with a large plate.

“Croquettes filled with mutated crab meat, a poached finger of the Godzilla crab, two smoked
cheeses made from creamy crab milk, and a salty miso-butter sauce based on a concentrated
seaweed broth. The crispy fried crab shell containing the sauce is also edible.” He pointed with his
pinky.

In her whole career, she had never heard of a Godzilla crab finger or crab milk, but the croquettes
looked crispy. Under her headset she felt a spoon being pushed into her mouth. She took a bite. A
soft crab filling in a crispy panko shell filled her mouth. It tasted like fresh crab meat—sweet and
briny. She also noted the salty miso butter.

The waiter returned with the next course: “Suspended Noodles with Soft Shell Egg Custard.”
A dark green glazed plate held an island of pasta strands in the center, slowly wiggling upwards.
Glossy, carmine-red spheres, resembling gum balls, were nestled among the noodles. Twelve
glowing, egg-shaped capsules filled with golden custard, lay in a perfect circle around the levitating
pasta. They looked like flexible eggs of a large amphibian or sea creature.

She ate cautiously. The noodles were perfectly al dente. As she bit into the tender egg shells, a
velvety custard filled her mouth—flavoured with durian, melted brie, and caviar. An explosion of
taste. The thin, crisp coating of the red balls melted in her mouth like a layer of ice, revealing a
fruity juice inside, tasting like cranberries and Sichuan peppers—tart, numbing, and spicy at the
same time. The contrasting flavours came together in a stunning harmony. She emptied her virtual
plate and licked her lips.

Still no Hugo. She had dined alone before, but this was the first time she felt uncomfortable lonely.
She studied the other diners, who ate like mechanical puppets, never dropping a fork or laughing
too loudly—things that always happened in real restaurants.

Then: Peach-glazed Staring Ham à la Picasso.

Fritzi gasped. It was indeed a “staring” ham, with large, sorrowful eyes and a upturned nose,
garnished with plum-sized capers and steaming pears.

A glitch flickered. For a moment she saw Hugo sitting opposite her.

“Hugo? Are you there?”

A headache pounded behind her eyes.

The waiter returned with “Titan Beetle with mashed potatoes.” A glass bowl containing a gigantic,
gleaming beetle wrapped in a blanket of mashed potatoes.

Was the waiter Hugo? She watched him disappear once again into the dark background.
The dishes kept coming, each more exotic than the last. Smoked double-headed crawfish, Classic
Scarab Charcuterie Platter, Fried Party Alien with caramelised beet ketchup… As bizarre as they
looked, as delicious and strangely familiar it all tasted. Rosemary, black garlic, caramelised beets,
cumin, and nutmeg. Cream, clarified butter and pungent aged cheeses. She hadn’t had such a rich
menu in ages.

It was all very amusing, but without her brother she felt lost in this strange place. Sweat prickled on
her back. She desperately hoped the endless stream of dishes would stop soon. Pig Butt, Cultivated
Meat, and Creamy Tomato Pâté. She’d had enough. She wanted out.

Dessert arrived: “Mr. Goobies Army, caterpillar mocha.” Petit-fours adorned with insect heads.

How unsettling.

I need to get out.

Or I’ll go insane.

“You can leave the restaurant and remove your VR equipment outside.” Fritzi heard Marika’s voice
from outside the virtual world.

She hurtled into the pixelated desert, tore off the headset and blinked her burning eyes. She was
back in her kitchen. Woes and Marika watched her expectantly.

Her eyes darted around—her gas stove, the shelf filled with bottles of oils and vinegars, the heavy
pans hanging on the wall, the worn wooden spoons, spatulas, and whisks, the row of razor-sharp
knives. Everything was so much more detailed than the artificial world of the restaurant.

“Well? What did you think?” Woes asked.

“What a trip,” Fritzi said. “I never want to experience that again.”

Woes’ phone rang. He stepped away to answer it.

Fritzi wobbled slightly as she walked through her kitchen. She wanted to touch everything, to feel
that it was real. She sniffed the jars of spices, pressing her cheek against a greasy grill pan. Her
racing heartbeat began to slow.

“Are you okay, Fritzi?” Marika asked.

“I’m sorry I panicked. I was hoping Hugo would be there too. This is all so new to me. I couldn’t
even focus on the dishes.”

Woes returned to the kitchen, looking somber.

“Uncle Hugo hated the dishes. He thinks no one would ever want such weird food. Too arty-farty,
he called it. He wants burgers and BBQ instead.”

 

Return to the Virtual Restaurant

That night, Fritzi couldn’t sleep. Images of staring hams and strange fruits haunted her mind. The
dishes had been so surreal that she could barely recall what she had eaten. Woes had seemed so
disappointed — she hadn’t paid enough attention to the dishes. And Hugo didn’t agree with his
design.

Why don’t I give it another try?

She got out of bed and walked into the kitchen, where the VR headset still lay connected on the
table. Would she remember how to activate the game? She put it on and found herself back in the
pixelated desert. The same waiter led her to the same table. The restaurant was still crowded with
dining guests.

She asked for a menu. The dishes were just as strange as before, but she didn’t recognise any from
her previous visit. She ordered Slow Cooked Lamprey with Capers. She lifted a slice of lamprey to
her mouth. But of course, her real hand was empty and she tasted nothing. Since nobody was
feeding her this time, it felt like pantomime. She paused the game and grabbed a pack of crackers to
nibble on during her virtual dinner.

Back in the simulation, she called the waiter.

“Could I get a basket of bread and butter?”

The order arrived, and it looked like bread and butter—but the size and texture slightly off, as if AI-
generated.

Curious, she stood up and began exploring. She approached a table where other guests were dining.
They didn’t notice her and continued their meals. She reached out to pick up a bowl of green, slimy
sauce from the table, but her hand passed right through it.

This is all fake.

Where is the food actually made?

Where is the kitchen?

She wandered through the restaurant until she spotted a door with a window. Peering through the
window, she saw chefs working busily with steaming pots. She tried to push the door open, but her
hand went right through it.

Maybe I can walk straight through the closed door.

As she stepped forward, a blue grid lit up. Her foot hit something solid. She had bumped into her
real-life refrigerator. She returned to her table and called the waiter.

“Waiter, would you be so kind as to ask the chefs to prepare something special for me?”

“Of course” the waiter replied, “What would you like?”

“A plate of pasta with mushroom ragout, but with mushrooms as big as apples and as airy as cotton
candy,” she fantasised aloud.

“I will pass on your request.”

A moment later, he returned with a plate of pappardelle in a white sauce, topped with giant fluffy
mushrooms. She stuck her fork into the pasta, and to her astonishment the mushrooms slowly
floated upward, hovering in mid-air. She snapped the floating mushrooms out of the air with her
mouth.

This is fun!

“Waiter, I’d like a bowl of ramen so big I could swim in it.”

The waiter brought her a normal sized bowl of ramen.

Too bad. Not everything is possible, apparently.

To her surprise, her avatar began to shrink. She grew smaller and smaller until she was the size of a
mouse and splashed into the soup. She swam a few laps through the broth before climbing onto the
floating boiled egg. With both hands, she pulled a noodle from the soup and took a big bite.

“Waiter, bring me a plate of fried shrimp that peel themselves.”

A silver platter with a pile of glossy shrimp was placed before her. The shrimp straightened up and
began to dance slowly. Like professional striptease performers, they elegantly wriggled out of their
shells. Fritzi laughed. She was getting into it now, entertaining herself by ordering more and more
impossible dishes.

Hours later, she had run out of ideas. She was tired and genuinely hungry from seeing so much food
yet eating none of it. She took off the VR headset.

“Whew, what an adventure! I have to tell Hugo and Woes about this,” she thought. But first, she
needed to eat something and get a few hours of sleep.

 

Implant Gift Cards

A year later, they gathered again around the Christmas table. Fritzi had put in her best effort to
create a delicious meal using the last fresh ingredients she could find. Hugo had given her money to
buy pricey greenhouse-grown chicory. She had secured a bag of dried chickpeas, perfect for making
a hearty stew. Along with a can of outrageously expensive tomatoes, she made do with the last of
her pantry spices to turn it all into something truly flavourful.

“So nice you’re joining us,” she said to Marika.

She noticed Hugo looked much older. “Have you lost more weight, Hugo?” she asked.

“Only 154 pounds left,” Hugo said, patting his flat stomach. “I feel amazing!”

Hugo tapped his water glass. “I’d like to take this opportunity for a short speech.”

Oh dear…

In the past, before he had his implant, he would be tipsy before the main course. She prepared
herself for one of his sentimental rambling speeches.

“Dear family, I am grateful that we can spend this Christmas together again in good harmony.
We are a small family, but what a family!

Fritzi, my big sister. You always looked after me. I know you hated it when I emigrated to the U.S.
You couldn’t cook for me. And I ate so poorly there—burgers and ice cream, getting bigger and
bigger. Well, we don’t have to worry about that anymore.

And Woes, you are the only descendant, but all the families talents are concentrated in you:
creative, visionary, hardworking, etcetera. And beside you, your wonderful girlfriend, Marika—who
is not only beautiful but also has a brilliant mind.

Woes and Marika, it is up to you to continue this small but powerful family line. Have you thought
about having children?”

Marika giggled and shook her head firmly.

Hugo continued, “I am proud of what we accomplished this year. Woes, your virtual restaurant is
mind-boggling. Marika, your AI technology behind it is groundbreaking And Fritzi, your sublime
cooking skills trained the AI with the best flavours in this drying world.

Synaptica has done very well this past year. Soon, we’ll place the millionth implant. We”ll celebrate
that at the company with a visit to the virtual restaurant!”

He handed out golden envelopes. “That’s why I want to thank you with a big gift. I bought you
vouchers for Synaptica implants. The first clinic in Europe just opened in Switzerland.
Here are your tickets for an optimal life, free of limitations.”

“I can’t wait to visit the virtual restaurant myself and experience the full immersion.” Woes burst
out, “Thank you so much!”

Fritzi dabbed her eyes with her napkin.

“What’s wrong, Fritzi? Aren’t you happy with the gift?” Hugo asked.

“I don’t know if I want an implant,” she said. “The idea of tasting things that aren’t really there feels
strange to me.”

“But Mom, don’t you want to keep enjoying food? Look at how fast things are changing. So many
of your favourite ingredients disappeared just this year—blue cheese, kiwis, coffee. In ten years,
there might be nothing left to cook with at all. Virtual food is the future.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

After the sugar-free apple sorbet dessert, Marika and Woes left.

Hugo turned to Fritzi. “Why don’t you write a piece about the experimental dishes you made in the
virtual restaurant? I bet the newspapers would love to publish that.”

“I thought you wanted conventional dishes for the restaurant.”

“Yes, to make it a commercial success, but your entertaining meals would bring the necessary
publicity.”

“Of course, I’d love to write about that!”

“If you had an implant, you could also use the AI taste stimulator to come up with completely new
flavours and combinations.”

“I’m worried that the virtual restaurants will only speed up the disappearance of fresh food.”

“There’s no way back, Fritzi.” Hugo said. “Embrace it.”

Fritzi sighed. “You’re probably right.”

 

Fritzi’s Birthday

It was May 28th. Fritzi had sold a story about her virtual restaurant adventures to a Japanese
magazine on online culture. The Japanese loved her AI-generated seaweed-like flavour suggestions,
and her anime-shaped radishes and carrots were a hit. The payment was enough for her to buy some
real food.

She video-called her son.

“Will you and Marika come over for dinner tonight? It’s my birthday. I want to cook a classical
feast. Tonight, no Synaptica dishes and brain stimulation—just old-fashioned taste bud
stimulation!”

“Shit! I forgot! Happy birthday, Mom. But we can’t make it tonight. We have plans with Marika’s
friends from Nepal to go to a virtual restaurant that just opened. Apparently, the interior and service
are fantastic. Marika hasn’t seen her friends in years, but now we can meet them in the metaverse.
Nepal finally has fast enough internet. We’ll visit later this week to make it up to you—with a gift!”
Fritzi swallowed, trying not to sound disappointed. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Have fun.”

She craved white asparagus, a childhood birthday tradition. Her father used to bring them from
Limburg. She served them with boiled eggs, ham, freshly harvested baby potatoes, and melted
butter. For dessert, the season’s first strawberries with whipped cream.

God, how she longed to make that meal again. But with an evening alone ahead of her, she suddenly
lacked the energy to search the stores. Asparagus? There was no chance of finding those anywhere.
She grabbed an artificial protein pudding, put on her VR headset and activated the game.

The rusty door with brass doorknob was still there. Last year, the restaurant stood alone in a vast
desert, but now the area was filling up with restaurants, theaters, and shops. The street was bustling
with consumers and day-trippers hopping in and out of the establishments.

The dining room was half-empty. This once cutting-edge restaurant, was now considered outdated,
the service too stiff.

The waiter handed her a menu, the same as on her first visit.

“Waiter, I’d like white asparagus, prepared in the traditional Dutch way. And strawberries with
cream.

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Within a minute, he returned with her meal. He set a plate of thick,
chalk white asparagus, perfectly round baby potatoes, and delicate rolls of pink ham before her. It
looked even more perfect than in her memory.

She eagerly mashed everything together and rolled the asparagus through the buttery mixture. She
speared one onto her fork and bit off the tip. It was soft, not at all stringy, and had a vague
asparagus-like taste. But the experience wasn’t as she remembered.

Eating it used to be messier—the juices would run down her chin. Now, everything was too clean,
too perfect, the taste too flat. It tasted too digital. She asked the waiter to bring her strawberries.
They tasted more like candy than real fruit. Disappointed, she pushed the bowl aside.

“Would madam like something else?”

“A black coffee and the best cognac you have.”

“Would you like the cognac with or without alcohol simulation?”

“With alcohol, please. Make it extra strong.”

The coffee and cognac went down well, and under their intoxicating effect, she became nostalgic.

What meaning did it have to eat asparagus and strawberries on her birthday anymore? She could
now have her birthday meal any day of the year. It was no longer tied to the seasons or to her
father’s travels through Limburg. The dish had lost all connection to her birthday, to her identity, to
where she came from. It felt as if a part of herself had been taken away.

Yet, until recently, food had still brought her comfort. Before the implant, before the endless
possibilities of AI generated flavour-simulations, cooking had been a way to ground herself. Even if
she had to be creative with the few ingredients available. On a bad day like this, the simple act of
preparing a meal would have helped her find peace. But now, even that source of comfort was gone
for good.

She began to cry softly, feeling the tears prick against her cheeks beneath the VR headset.

The waiter approached her table to ask if everything was satisfactory. She nodded.

Thankfully, her son hadn’t put much effort into the emotion-recognition software, so the waiter
didn’t see her tears.