Cooking in a restaurant that touches the clouds is utterly unlike any other kitchen on earth. The endless sea of lights below might be awe-inspiring, with skyscrapers stretching in every direction as nightfall blazes across the glass facades, but behind that vista lies a relentless storm of speed. There’s no moment to pause when the clock strikes five-thirty and hell breaks loose. The stoves scream with heat, metal shrieks against metal, and the walk-in is always too warm.
The structure we serve in brings its invisible obstacles. Service elevators stall during rush times, so every spice must be planned weeks ahead. Lose a bottle of truffle oil and the entire kitchen stalls. We keep double the supply — not merely as backup — because time is the one resource we never have. Once, a delivery truck got trapped in traffic, teletorni restoran and we rebuilt the orders from scratch using frozen stock because the chef would never cut corners.
Noise here is a different beast. The city murmurs below, but in this steel-and-fire nest, the clatter of pots mingles with the whistle of pressure valves, urgent shouts from the line, and the occasional roar from the expeditor. Ear protection is mandatory — not by choice — because our ears can’t take it. There is no such thing as a quiet shift.
The heat is relentless. Even when frost coats the windows, the kitchen stays locked at 85°F. The hoods battle desperately, but they’re never enough. When the last order clears, our shirts cling like sponges, and we change twice just to step into the cold. A handful of us keep extra foot coverings nearby because our feet sweat like rivers.
Somehow — there’s a quiet pride in it. We’re not simply plating dishes — we’re crafting moments. They brave the elevator ride to honor a birthday, to toast a win. They come for the view, but they stay for the flavor. We know it — in the way a guest lingers, or when they beg to meet the cook.
We miss the dawn — we don’t watch the sky brighten. But Occasionally, when we step out, we steal a moment of the urban dawn breaking. The offices still glow, commuters stir below. And we feel deep down — we were part of something.
We are the silent force who sustain the fire. Not for the Instagram likes, but because someone must. When your burners touch the sky, you learn this truth: the most unforgettable dishes aren’t the ones that sparkle on the plate — they’re the ones made with grit.