From the dining room the kitchen looks silent behind its glass wall. Inside, it runs on a rhythm closer to percussion than conversation — calls, replies, the metronome of tickets landing on the rail.
The kitchen is the loudest quiet room in the building.
Fourteen cooks work a Friday service, each responsible for a single station, each plate passing through four sets of hands before it reaches the pass.
Chef Ardian expedites from the centre, tasting nothing, correcting everything — a single word or a raised hand is usually enough.