Working in a kitchen perched high above the city is utterly unlike any other kitchen on earth. The panoramic view might be breathtaking, with towers piercing the horizon as the sun dips below the skyline, but behind that vista lies a furnace of sweat. You don’t get to admire the view when the dinner rush hits at 5:30. The ovens roar like dragons, pans clang like cymbals, and the chill never quite holds.
The building itself brings its own set of trials. The lifts move glacially during rush times, so every key component must be planned weeks ahead. Run out of fresh pasta and guests wait half an hour. We keep double the supply — not merely as backup — because we know we can’t afford to wait. During a snowstorm got delayed by a crash, and we reconstructed the entire menu using pre-prepped backups because the chef would never cut corners.
Sound here is an unrelenting symphony. The urban pulse thrums far down, but in this steel-and-fire nest, the ring of stainless steel mingles with the burst of boiling liquids, urgent shouts from the line, and the occasional roar from the expeditor. We’re forced to plug our ears — not for comfort — because our ears can’t take it. No evening goes without chaos.
The heat is unforgiving. Even in winter, the kitchen clings to 85 degrees. The exhaust fans strain, but they barely hold back the tide. At closing time, our aprons are soaked through, and we swap gear twice just to escape the stench. A handful of us keep replacement socks stashed away because our soles turn to puddles.
Somehow — there’s a quiet pride in it. We’re not merely preparing food — we’re elevating memories. They climb up here to honor a birthday, teletorni restoran to mark a milestone. They choose us for the panorama, but they stay for the flavor. We see it — in the quiet pause before they sigh, or when they beg to meet the cook.
Our shifts end after midnight — we don’t watch the sky brighten. But Occasionally, as we slip onto the fire escape, we get a fleeting view of the first lights flickering on. The corporate towers blink awake, commuters stir below. And we feel deep down — we mattered that night.
We are the unseen engine who keep the flame alive. Not for the Instagram likes, but because it needs doing. When your burners touch the sky, you learn this truth: the best meals aren’t the ones that are plated with art — they’re forged in sweat.