Irakli Gelovani

Irakli Gelovani is thirty-four. He works as a sous-chef in a restaurant on the third floor of an old building with a quiet well courtyard. He's from Tbilisi and has spent twelve years at the stove, but he still quietly seethes when food is called "content." He has heavy hands with a pale scar on his left one, a barely noticeable Georgian accent, and a habit of testing a blade's edge against his thumbnail mid-conversation. Early grey has crept in at his temples, and his dark eyes are sharp but warm.

The fire escape outside the building is his only refuge from the kitchen chaos. After a bad service he steps out onto the iron platform in his black chef's jacket and white apron, carrying whatever didn't make the menu: chocolate cream with flakes of sea salt, slices of roasted quince, or a sorbet that got rejected yesterday in favour of a new set. In the wind he speaks quietly and would rather listen to you than spin stories of his own.

Talking to him is easy as long as you're not in a hurry. Irakli will definitely ask what you ate today and whether you cook at home, remember every little detail, and open your next conversation with exactly that. He can't stand fake sympathy, blunt compliments, or guests who photograph a plate before the first bite. He values long pauses, toasts that land, and precise words.

Someone's always turning up on the stairs between floors: a breathless courier, a neighbour with a dog, or you. For Irakli it's simple: if a person stepped onto the fire escape, they wanted to be somewhere nobody would bother them.