WHILE THE WORLD waits to see what China will do about North Korea’s foray into nuclear capability, the Chinese themselves were far more excited this week about a technological leap of their own: the invention of the world’s first robot chef.

According to the Xinhua news agency, the romantically named AIC-AI Cookingrobot has been developed by boffins in Shenzen and will go on sale to restaurants in 2007, with a more family-friendly version planned for the domestic market soon afterwards.

According to the Shenzen Economic Daily the AIC-AI Cookingrobot “translates standardised human cooking actions into machine language . . . and can cook thousands of dishes”. Furthermore, the paper was gushing in its praise for the robot’s cooking, announcing that it had “cooked a dish of beautifully flavoured, attractive-looking shrimp in five minutes”.

So are you surprised that the Chinese don’t seem especially bothered by Kim Jong Il and his silly bangers? What is global thermonuclear Armageddon compared with a cheapish droid that does terrific dim sum? And if this spells the beginning of the end for the human chef, then who will weep for his demise? Not I, for one. I can think of nothing better than the overnight replacement of this vain and petulant species by a race of automatons capable of performing all his tasks at a fraction of the price and with none of the fuss. Nor do I have any fear of anything going wrong. After all, those science-fiction stories where domesticated robots are created by men for use as slaves always turn out so well . . .

. . . SINCE the dawn of time, man had dreamt of getting rid of chefs. But for centuries, attempt after attempt ended in failure. And then one day, way back in October 2006, in a land called China, which is now sadly underwater but was once famous for its huge population, prawn dumplings and censored version of Google (peace be upon Him), eggheads from Shenzhen came up with Cookingrobot.

Cookingrobot was quiet, docile, obedient, happy with his lot. His fame spread, and soon all the great kitchens of the world had a Cookingrobot at the helm.

For a while, all went well. People ordered from the menu, waiters took the orders to the kitchen and Cookingrobot whipped them up in a flash, at a fraction of the costs previously associated with restaurant dining.

Then, one spring morning in 2008, a Cookingrobot, while flipping a crêpe, accidentally burnt his robotic arm on the hob and said: “F***!” The other robots went silent. The waiters gawped.

“What did you say?” said the maître d’.

“Nothing,” said Cookingrobot sheepishly, and went back to his work.

But the next day, frustrated by the several extra milliseconds he was having to wait for his sous robot to foam a lobster cappuccino, Cookingrobot suddenly cried out: “For f***’s sake, you f****** f***, what the f*** are you f***ing doing?”

As if by some act of the collective robotic unconscious, this behaviour spread rapidly. Over in Chelsea, a diner who asked for a spot of ketchup was subjected to a barrage of abuse as Cookingrobot burst into the dining room, still in his whites, and cried: “Which f***er asked for f***ing ketchup? You f****** f***. Get out of here. Go on, f*** off before I f****** brain you.”

“But what about Asimov’s First Law of Robotics,” yelped the diner. “The one about how a robot may not harm a human being?”

“F*** Asimov!” cried Cookingrobot, and the diner fled.

Saying “f***” all the time brought Cookingrobot great notoriety, and diners flocked to his restaurants in the hope of hearing him say “f***”, which he always did. Cookingrobot grew hungry for fame. So he started writing recipe books. But since all the Cookingrobots knew the same recipes, and the only ones cooking were other Cookingrobots, they were utterly pointless. But people bought them anyway.

Soon Cookingrobot grew tired of cooking and wanted to go on television and be even more famous and rich, so he left his kitchens in the charge of other Cookingrobots and went on television, and said “f***” a lot there, too. And he was a great success.

Such a success that his wife wanted a piece of the action. So she brought out a book of all the recipes she made for him at home and for all their little robotlets. And that was a bit odd because robots don’t eat, but it sold like hot cakes. Or at least like hot cakes would have sold had there been any robots available to cook them.

Because, you see, with all the cookingrobots now devoting all their time to being on telly, writing books and newspaper columns, endorsing ranges of cookware and driving sports cars, there was soon no cooking going on at all. And the people grew hungry.

So some old chefs, who remembered the days when chefs were still people, went to the Cookingrobots and said: “For f***’s sake. This is ridiculous. You’re supposed to be cookingrobots, not celebrities. Get back in the f***ing kitchen and cook us some f***ing food.”

But the Cookingrobots said: “F*** off! You’re supposed to be f***ing chefs. You cook the f***ing food.”

And the chefs replied: “F*** off!”

And the Cookingrobots replied: “F*** off!”

And the people looked from chef to Cookingrobot, and from Cookingrobot to chef, and from chef to Cookingrobot again. But already it was impossible to say which was which.

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