• 목록
• 답변
• 글쓰기
• 게시판 리스트 옵션
  • 수정
  • 삭제

Cooking in a restaurant that touches the clouds is nothing like any other kitchen on earth. The staggering skyline might be breathtaking, 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 burners blare nonstop, dishes crash in rhythmic fury, and the fridge fights to stay cold.

The structure we serve in brings its unique burdens. Elevators crawl during peak hours, so every ingredient must be ordered days in advance. Misplace a single herb and the entire kitchen stalls. We keep double the supply — not just for emergencies — because time is the one resource we never have. On one brutal night got stuck in gridlock, and we reconstructed the entire menu using last-resort reserves because quality was sacred.

Sound here is an unrelenting symphony. The urban pulse thrums far down, but up here, the clash of utensils mingles with the hiss of steam, urgent shouts from the line, and the explosive cry 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 oven-like climate is unyielding. Even when snow falls, the kitchen clings to 85 degrees. The hoods battle desperately, but they never win. At closing time, our uniforms are drenched, and we swap gear twice just to step into the cold. Some of us keep spare socks in our lockers because blister risks are constant.

Still — an unspoken dignity in it. We’re not just cooking — we’re crafting moments. They brave the elevator ride to honor a birthday, to toast a win. They book for the skyline, but they stay for the flavor. We know 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, teletorni restoran as we slip onto the fire escape, 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 silent force who sustain the fire. Not for the Instagram likes, but because it needs doing. When your burners touch the sky, you learn this truth: the truest flavors aren’t the ones that look the prettiest — they’re the ones made with grit.