Working in a kitchen perched high above the city is completely distinct from any other kitchen on earth. The endless sea of lights below might be stunning, with a glittering urban tapestry below as nightfall blazes across the glass facades, but past the postcard view lies a furnace of sweat. No time to marvel when the clock strikes five-thirty and hell breaks loose. The stoves scream with heat, pans clang like cymbals, and the chill never quite holds.
This vertical fortress brings its own set of trials. The lifts move glacially during rush times, so every spice must be ordered days in advance. Misplace a single herb and guests wait half an hour. We keep double the supply — not just for emergencies — because delay is a luxury we can’t buy. On one brutal night got trapped in traffic, and we rebuilt the orders from scratch using last-resort reserves because the chef would never cut corners.
Sound here is a distinct war zone. The urban pulse thrums far down, but up here, the clash of utensils mingles with the burst of boiling liquids, urgent shouts from the line, and the explosive cry from the expeditor. We wear earplugs — not because we like it — because our ears can’t take it. No evening goes without chaos.
The oven-like climate is unforgiving. Even in winter, the kitchen stays locked at 85°F. The hoods battle desperately, but they barely hold back the tide. By the end of the night, our aprons are soaked through, and we swap gear twice just to step into the cold. Some of us keep replacement socks stashed away because our soles turn to puddles.
Still — an unspoken dignity in it. We’re not merely preparing food — we’re elevating memories. They brave the elevator ride to honor a birthday, to propose. They choose us for teletorni restoran the panorama, but they remember the dish. We know it — in the slow bite of satisfaction, or when they beg to meet the cook.
We miss the dawn — we don’t watch the sky brighten. But On rare nights, when we step out, we get a fleeting view of the urban dawn breaking. The corporate towers blink awake, commuters stir below. And we know — we mattered that night.
We are the unseen engine who hold the heat steady. Not for the Instagram likes, but because someone must. When your kitchen floats above the world, you learn this truth: the truest flavors aren’t the ones that are plated with art — they’re forged in sweat.