Welcome to BTB’s The Bottom Line, our deep dive with the leaders, creators, and disruptors who’ve rewritten the rules of success. We skip the rehearsed answers and dig into the contradictions, what actually works versus what sounds good, the moments that changed everything, and the hard truths they’d tell you off the record. Less corporate speak, more real talk.
When Rishi Naleendra first arrived in Singapore from Australia in 2014, potential employers told him he couldn’t be marketed properly—his Sri Lankan heritage didn’t match the modern Australian cuisine he cooked. Three years later, he made history as the first Sri Lankan chef to receive a Michelin star. Today, the Colombo-born, Australian-trained chef-restaurateur operates three acclaimed establishments: the two-Michelin-starred Cloudstreet, which he describes as his biography told through food; Kotuwa, a celebration of Sri Lankan cuisine that arrived only after he felt he’d earned the right to cook his own story; and Station by Kotuwa, a more casual offshoot that opened in March 2025, replacing the former Fool Wine Bar.
Naleendra’s path to the top was circuitous. He began studying architecture in Melbourne before pivoting to kitchens, cleaning supermarkets, washing dishes, and working his way from cafés to some of Australia’s most revered restaurants, including Tetsuya’s. But his journey reveals something more subversive than a standard rags-to-riches narrative: a refusal to take the easier route, even when it would have been commercially smarter. For years, he resisted cooking Sri Lankan food professionally, determined to prove himself on his own terms rather than lean into ethnicity as a marketing tool. Only after Michelin stars and Asia’s 50 Best recognition did he feel the freedom to explore his heritage without it defining him.
We asked him 11 hard questions about the contradictions of running restaurants, where consistency collides with creativity, where personal brand meets burnout, and where the soul of cultural cuisine risks being polished away for global palates.
1. Many people don’t know that you started your career as an aspiring architect in Melbourne before pivoting to kitchens. Moving from architecture to cooking meant swapping blueprints for recipes, but both involve creating spaces where people gather. How do the design principles you learnt building structures apply to building restaurants and experiences?
It was in the very early stages of my architecture degree that I made the shift to cooking, initially because I wanted to secure my Australian residency. But once I entered the hospitality world, I found myself completely absorbed by it. One thing I knew for certain was I didn’t want a job that confined me to an office, where I couldn’t see or touch the end product of my work. I wanted to be part of something creative and tangible. So when I transitioned into hospitality, it didn’t feel like a dramatic change, I was still operating in a creative space, just through a different medium. Even during my time in Australia, I took on countless odd jobs from cleaning supermarkets to working in a graphic design shop, and everything in between. Each of those experiences shaped me and broadened my perspective. They all added layers to my understanding of how people engage with design, space, and atmosphere, lessons that now help me build experiences that resonate with others.
2. When you arrived in Singapore in 2014, you were told by potential employers that you couldn’t be marketed the way another chef could be and that your Sri Lankan heritage didn’t align with the modern Australian cuisine you were cooking. That rejection ultimately led to Michelin stars and international recognition. What does that reveal about how the industry decides which stories are worth telling?
That moment came very early in my career in Singapore, and of course, it was difficult to hear. But rather than letting it discourage me, it became fuel. It made me want to prove a point, not to others, but to myself. I started questioning whether my ethnicity, my heritage, could ever be a disadvantage when it came to the food I was creating. I realised that what others saw as a limitation could, in fact, become my greatest strength. That experience gave me confidence, clarity, and an identity that was entirely my own.
3. You’ve gone on to open Cloudstreet, which you’ve described as your biography told through food, modern, inventive, and personal. Then came Kotuwa, which explores your Sri Lankan heritage after years of cooking other cuisines. Why did it take multiple successful restaurants before you felt ready to cook your own story?
I never initially thought that Sri Lankan food would become my story. My grandmother and mother have been cooking it their whole lives, and they do it beautifully, with no ego, no financial motive, just instinct and love. Because of that, I never felt I could lay claim to it. I saw my story as something I would invent and something I could build from the ground up. That’s why I was so focused on creating through restaurants like Cloudstreet and, before that, Cheek by Jowl. I didn’t want to be labelled a “Sri Lankan chef,” because I knew that would have been the easier, more expected path. It wasn’t about distancing myself from my culture, I’m deeply proud of where I come from, but I wanted to establish my own creative narrative first. Only after I’d done that, after Cloudstreet, after the Michelin recognition and the 50 Best list, did I feel free enough to return to my roots. By then, I no longer needed to prove anything to anyone. I could finally cook what I wanted, purely because I wanted to.
4. The restaurant industry rewards consistency, same dishes, same standards, and same experience. But creativity demands evolution and risk. How do you balance the commercial need for reliability with the artistic need for growth?
One thing I’ve learnt over the years is that no matter how creative you are, a restaurant is ultimately a business. And in this business, consistency is everything. As much as creativity fuels progress, consistency sustains it. It’s not easy. Sometimes it’s frustrating not to keep changing things, but that discipline is what allows you to refine and improve over time. Even when we introduce new ideas, there’s always a process. Change can’t happen in isolation; it needs to flow through the entire system—the kitchen, the floor, operations, and management. Everyone needs to be aligned so the whole ecosystem doesn’t unravel over a single adjustment. That’s something I had to learn through experience. At the end of the day, a restaurant isn’t just a reflection of one individual’s vision, it’s a collective effort. Every decision has to make commercial sense, and if a creative impulse threatens the stability of the business, it’s simply not worth it.
5. You’ve said you’re not afraid to fail, which is unusual in an industry where one bad review can devastate a business. Can you tell us about a spectacular failure that taught you more than any success, and how it reshaped your approach?
When it comes to failure, one lesson stands out above all others. I’ll never forget it. Back in Melbourne, I was working at cafés and pubs but wanted to break into fine dining. I applied for a Chef de Partie position, even though I was already a sous chef in a café. What I didn’t realise was just how vast the gap was between those two worlds. Halfway through my trial, I was told to leave. I was devastated, humiliated, even. I didn’t tell my wife [fellow restauranteur Manuela Toniolo] for a long time. But that day changed everything for me. It stripped away any illusion that ambition alone was enough. I realised I still had so much to learn about food, discipline, precision, and humility before chasing status or money. That failure was the beginning of my real career. It was the day I decided to start from scratch, to build myself properly, layer by layer.
6. Singapore’s dining scene has exploded globally, but there’s tension between authentic local cuisine and international fine dining expectations. As someone who straddles both worlds, what gets lost when food becomes too polished for global palates?
The beauty of Singapore’s dining scene is its range, you can have an extraordinary meal at a world-class restaurant one night and an unforgettable plate of noodles at a hawker centre the next. That balance is what gives the city its culinary heartbeat. Some of my favourite meals here are still in small, family-run shops that have been around for generations. That’s the magic of it, the coexistence of the high and the humble. But when food becomes too polished, especially when dealing with local or deeply cultural cuisines, something essential can be lost. The flavours might remain, but the soul fades. The challenge is to elevate without sanitising, to present food beautifully without stripping it of its roots. That’s where many lose their path. The authenticity, the spirit, the imperfections, those are what make cuisine alive.
7. There’s a tension in that fine dining often strips cultural food of its context. Street food becomes tasting menus, or communal dishes become individual portions. When you brought Sri Lankan cuisine to Kotuwa, what compromises did you refuse to make?
I don’t see Kotuwa as fine dining. It’s casual, but with a great deal of intention behind it. We’ve poured thought and care into every aspect, so it carries that polish, but at its core it’s meant to feel relaxed and joyful. You can walk in, order snacks, curries, sides, all à la carte, and just have fun. One thing I refused to compromise on was the way the food is eaten. Sri Lankan food isn’t meant to be plated individually. It’s meant to be shared, to sit in the middle of the table, surrounded by laughter and conversation. That’s the essence of it. So for Kotuwa, that sense of communal dining was non-negotiable. It’s what keeps the food honest, and the experience real.
8. The hospitality industry has a notorious culture of long hours and kitchen hierarchy that can be toxic. As someone now running multiple establishments, how do you create the culture you wish you’d worked in when you were starting out?
When I was starting out, the industry was very different. The culture was harsh, hierarchical, and defined by long, punishing hours. I wouldn’t say I thought it was wrong back then, it was simply the way things were. But we’ve evolved, both as chefs and as people. We now recognise that many of those old ways were unsustainable. I don’t look back with resentment though. I learnt a great deal from those experiences. I used to work 90- or 100-hour weeks, and while part of me wishes I hadn’t, another part knows I wouldn’t be where I am without that intensity. Still, I’m grateful that my generation has the chance and the responsibility to change that culture. It’s on us to make sure the next generation of chefs doesn’t go through the same physical and emotional toll we did. Because in that old system, if you didn’t make it, you broke; and even if you did make it, you still broke. I’m proud that our company has become part of that cultural shift. It took a lot of self-reflection, but it’s been one of the most important changes we’ve made.
9. You’re now running multiple establishments—Cloudstreet, Kotuwa, Station by Kotuwa—which means you’re both creative and CEO. The restaurant industry simultaneously celebrates chef personalities whilst burning them out with impossible hours and razor-thin margins. How do you reconcile building a personal brand around creativity when the business side demands ruthless efficiency?
I think it all comes down to the people you surround yourself with. You can’t do everything, not creatively, not operationally, and not sustainably. You need the right business partners, managers, and team members who can both support you and challenge you. People who can say “no” when needed. For me, that’s the real secret: empowering others to take ownership and trusting them to deliver. When you stop micromanaging, when you give your team the autonomy to grow, you create space for yourself to think, to create, and to lead. Because the truth is, the external pressures never go away like the long hours, the margins, and the constant demand to perform. Those are constants. What you can change is the ecosystem around them. If you make that better, fairer, calmer, more collaborative, everything else improves. When you take care of yourself and your environment, that well-being ripples through the entire organisation.
10. AI is starting to influence everything from recipe development to kitchen operations. As someone in a craft that’s fundamentally about human creativity and sensory experience, are you worried about technology’s role in hospitality, or excited by it?
I’m genuinely excited about technology. There was a phase where I resisted it and I didn’t like the idea of tech overshadowing what humans could do. But I’ve realised that if you fight it, you only make life harder for yourself. The smarter thing is to embrace it and make it work for you. There’s a lot that technology can do to support creativity and business in hospitality. We already use it for certain aspects, especially marketing and PR, and it makes a big difference. The key is not to see it as an enemy of craft, but as an ally, a tool that amplifies what we’re capable of rather than replacing it. Once you shift that mindset, it becomes something empowering instead of intimidating.
The Bottom Line:
You live only once, so find the thing you love deeply enough that it never feels like work. When passion and purpose meet, effort becomes instinct.