It's Not about Cooking: A Love Letter to FX's The Bear
Part One đ
A quick note: I started writing this months back before the official season three announcement but of course procrastination got the better of me and suddenly itâs the premiere date and I wanted to put this out before I watched the new season and it changed my current perspective on the show irreparably (hopefully for good!) So I canât promise any of this will stay relevant at all, but, thatâs life.
The Bear is not about cooking. Itâs not even about restaurants or food or anything else that immediately comes to mind when you think about what is arguably the buzziest show from any network in the past five years.
And of course, I too love this show. As do many, many others, evident from all the âYes, Chefâ memes, internet-wide obsession over Jeremy Allen Whiteâs white t-shirt, and the clean sweep Ayo Edebiri made during awards season this year. And while the second season aired a year ago and the third season is out today(!) The whole time in between I have thought about this show constantly. It haunts my feed, my brain, my heart and soul.
But why? I would be the first to admit to my own obsessive tendencies, but The Bear is different. It felt different from the first scene I watched. To me, The Bear is special. It settled straight into my heart, itâs locked in forever, likely until my dying day. (As someone who still reads Hannibal (NBC) fanfiction, I mean this very literally.)
Iâve spent a lot of time thinking about why I love this show so much. It brought me back to a core belief that Iâve always held about TV shows in general: The best TV, at its core, is always focused on characters and their relationships. So I meant what I said: The Bear is not about cooking or food or the restaurant industry. Thatâs the packaging, the cool tagline in a slick font meant to entice you into buying into the world of the show. But inside the flashy package, is the bloody, bruised and beating heart of the seriesâthe characters and what they mean to each other.
And what do they mean to each other? That is a loaded question, and gun to their heads these characters would be hard pressed to articulate it into such direct words, but I do believe thatâs the whole point. Jane Austen said it best in Emma, âIf I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it moreâ. There are a million different ways I could break down each of these characters and their relationships (and I will do some of that in a bit), but ultimately they care about each other in ways that nobody has before, and likely never will after.
I think thatâs it. Thatâs why I love this show so much. I love this show the most when I think about the care these characters have for each other and their work and how that tears them apart and brings them together.
Itâs the linchpin of the series. The true source of the towering stakes that keeps the story driving forward, unified, despite its many disparate moving parts. It is an excruciating kind of pleasure to watch a show where every single character cares so much. It highlights a precarious vulnerability that we are loath to admit we both crave and fear: The simple act of wearing our hearts on our sleeves in a world that makes you feel that doing so is a punishable act.
Thatâs the strange unfairness to the nature of caring. Like the more we chase something the further away it gets. Suddenly meaningless things have stakes when you care. And thatâs precisely what makes it so scary. If you care, then it matters. And the more you show you care the more it can disappoint you and let you down and break your heart. But this show, despite its chaos and conflict is full of optimism.
So the show cracks open its chest and invites you to look at itâs soft, tender heart, to reach out and touch it, trusting that you wonât be callous or cruel or worseâââdismissive. That you will cradle it gently with the utmost care. It offers up vulnerability by exposing how much it all matters. In return, you feel an immediate connection. A visceral and bone deep intimacy in the span of a few episodes.
So when I think about my favourite parts of The Bear, from either season, I donât really think about the technically excellent 20 minute one shot of chaos from season one, and I donât think about any of the food, not really, despite how excellent it all truly looks.
What I do think about is Sydney and Carmy, sitting under a table working together to fix the wobbly leg and also mend their fracturing partnership. I think about Richie and Terry, peeling mushrooms and chatting about their respective fathers and their respective failures. I think about Marcus and how he cares for his mom in hospice, an all too familiar reversal of roles between child and parent. These moments where nothing happens, but everything changes.
Thatâs what sets The Bear apart, how much the show truly cares. Its biggest strength lies in how it both views and portrays this very act. At its heart, The Bear is a loving and intimate meditation on service, in every facet of the word.Â
Finding Purpose Through Service: Richie in ForksÂ
In what is arguably the best episode of the second season, (but honestly I could argue any of them take that title) Richie is sent to stage at Terryâs restaurant. The episode is a microcosm of why the show works so well, because what weâre watching is Richie learning how to care, and through that care, discover purpose and identity.
Thatâs not to say that Richie didnât, previous to this episode, care. Itâs abundantly clear how much he cares. People who donât care donât stick around after being stabbed with a kitchen knife. They donât internalise their workplace changing as leaving them behind. They donât act like the world is ending when people leave. He caresâdeeply.
He cares so much, but his struggle has always been in how to let his ego go and convey that care in a meaningful way, not just for others but for himself. Richie, until this point in the series, is so lost. He doesnât know who he is and all he can associate himself with is failure. That makes him defensive and egotistical and plain rude. Heâs abrasive, and even I, someone whoâs always adopting the feral characters of shows under my wing, was like âWow, Richie is such a dick.â
This is precisely why Richieâs arc works not just story-wise, but emotionally. Itâs not because we finally see him align and âdrink the kool-aidâ, thatâs ultimately the surface level gesture that signifies the deeper thing. Itâs because he learns how to best express his devotion, his love and his care, and that gives Richie a true sense of purpose and place. It gives him the avenue in which he is able to step up in so many ways, For himself, his friends, his family, and yes, for the restaurant.
Purpose is so important, and Iâm definitely not the first person to say this about Richie and this episode. But equally as important to Richie finding purpose is how service to others allows Richie to find himself. Not just what heâs meant to be doing or how and where he fits into The Bear, but who he is as a person. Itâs a beautiful re-framing of widely-held assumptions about order and rigour, this idea that you lose yourself when youâre entirely committed to the whole. But Richie never loses himself in learning what it means to truly act in the service of others. He only becomes more himself, more truly, more authentically and more freely, and it is an absolute triumph to witness.
A Different Kind of Masculinity: The Way Marcus Loves in Honeydew
Marcus reminds me of that one stanza in that poem by Ada Limon, âAccident Report in the Tall, Tall Weedsâ
The opening scene of season two is Marcus in a dark room, sun not quite up, rubbing cream into his motherâs hands. She is lying in a hospital bed, connected to machines and tubes, unable to speak or really move. But Marcus speaks to her like theyâre having a conversation. You can feel how much he loves her in every word and movement. This is not just duty or obligation. Itâs devotion. Itâs beautiful and devastating and shows you everything you really need to know about Marcusâs true character in one scene.
Thereâs a reason Marcus is a baker. Itâs work thatâs methodical and constant. It requires patience, early mornings and a love for the kind of slow, repetitive steadiness that drives many people crazy. The delicate and precise nature of pastry work is a stark contrast to his broad shoulders and towering height. Those strong hands that cradle his momâs with an impossible gentleness are the same hands that learn how to dot tiny slivers of hazelnut onto a plate just so, and it makes so much sense how those gestures are the same thing drafted in different lights.
I love Marcus, and I love the way he loves. Earlier in the season, Marcus asks Sydney for more inspiration, telling her that heâs gone through all the cookbooks she gave him. Sheâs surprised and asks âall the cookbooks?â and he says âall of emâ. Another brief but notable scene that emphasises to the audience Marcusâs character and his character development from season one. Itâs not obsession anymore, not the insistent feeling that drove him to distraction in the disaster episode of season one. Itâs measured care for this thing that heâs come to love deeply. Heâs read through all of those books, cover to cover, and is willing to put himself out there and ask for more, because that is how he loves.
In all these tiny ways, The Bear makes a direct link between masculinity and gentle devotion. The way Marcus lovesâthe way a man lovesâis careful, considerate and steady (and sometimes a little awkward đ ). He is a baker and a caretaker who knows when to be gentle, who actually prefers it. Who sees beauty in the minutiae and pauses to appreciate it. His love and care is delicate and devastating and watching Honeydew broke my heart and stitched it back together all at once. I have never cared about shiso gelĂŠe and slivers of hazelnut in that way before or since.
Meaning in the Mundane
One of the most memorable moments of The Bear for me is when Sydney goes on a solo food tour of Chicago and imagines up a pasta dish inspired by the tastes, sights and sounds of the city. She spends a large portion of the episode walking around or on public transit. Itâs interspersed with eating delicious food, chatting with fellow chefs and restaurateurs, and thinking. Itâs very slice of life. But her mind is going a mile a minute and itâs an absolute symphony that sweeps you away.
Over and over, the show is peppered with these wonderful scenes where characters do very little. Richie talking to Terry peeling mushrooms, Marcus kneading dough alongside Luca, Sydney sitting on a bus, daydreaming about menu possibilities. Theyâre not doing much. But these little windows into who these characters are is precious lore. These small details are everything. By this point in the show, I care about each of these characters deeply, and these tidbits, they feel like gold, a hard earned vulnerability that is rare to get right on screen. But The Bear gets it right. I fall in love with each of the characters all over again. Because to see Sydneyâs brain work is a marvel. To see how she sees Chicago and distils that into iterative creativity is beautiful. To see Marcusâs awe of Luca and inspiration bubble up as he works with him is exciting and just so pure that it puts a silly smile on my face. And itâs not just insight into the main cast, because through these wonderfully mundane anecdotes, we get to know these brand new characters, and fall in love with who they are too.
The Impossible Task of Learning Not to Care: Carmy
From the beginning, Carmen is haunted by traumatic flashbacks of working in highly toxic kitchens. At the height of his fine dining career, he worked at Eleven Madison Park, where the executive chef constantly verbally abused and berated him, an ugly parallel to the the type of environment he grew up in. Itâs the home he ran away from, to New York, to Copenhagen, literally anywhere else, just to escape.
That pattern holds true throughout the show. Carmy is a runner. He always has been. He ran from home, he ran from New York, and in season two, he ran from The Bear. The central conflict of that season is not the preparation of a restaurant and all the small and big obstacles that they encounter, itâs Carmy running away. His relationship with Claire is a way to escape the trauma of turning The Beef into The Bear, a dream he shared with Mikey their whole lives, that he now has to do without him. Everything about the process must remind him of Mikey, a loss that he still hasnât processed entirely. So he looks for any sense of ânormalcyâ, a person entirely unrelated to the restaurant that lets him forget about how much it all matters.
Itâs difficult to talk about the things we care about. The very act of caring makes them fragile and makes you vulnerable. The whole show often feels like its teetering on a precipice as they all try to make sure The Bear doesnât fail before it even gets off the ground.
And Carmy cannot bear to watch. So he runs and runs until he canât. Until itâs the day of Friends and Family and he cannot run away any longer, and suffers the consequences of everything heâs been avoiding, and everything that heâs been running from finally catches up to him in a locked walk-in freezer. Everything heâs ever cared about, just outside of his grasp.
Goodness and the Courage of Optimism
Nothing is âChillâ or âLow Maintenanceâ about The Bear. The show does not try to play it cool. In fact, the show actively punishes casual attitudes and deliberate nonchalance. There is a painful earnestness that makes it both difficult to watch and impossible to turn away. But itâs worth it. Because itâs that scary vulnerability that paves the way for tenderness and joy, for sweetness and triumph. While the show explores these themes in the context of the restaurant business and food service industry, the reason why it resonates with so many people is because itâs a mirror for our lives. No matter what you do, you must wade through vulnerability, embarrassment, and that all-too uncomfortable sense of cringe, to get to the very best parts of the human experience. To avoid that uncomfortableness means robbing yourself of anything truly meaningful.
So much of what ties the characters of The Bear together is this never-ending meaning-making. A search for purpose that they are constantly hurtling through, again and again. We find each character having to re-evaluate and reorient their sense of self and purpose over and over right from the start.
And as I think about all the attempts these characters have made, to find themselves and find purpose and meaning, I reflect on my own. How totally clueless and stupid Iâve felt in this perpetual search through the dark for something I canât even describe. How terrifying it feels to have no idea where youâre going or how to get there, and the utter relief when you feel someone grab your hand, warm and sure. They squeeze it, and move in starts and stops, and you realise that they canât see much either. They also donât know what theyâre doing, where theyâre going, or how to get there. They are just as scared as you, so you squeeze back. You donât have to try all on your own anymore.
This show feels like a warm hand in the dark. Something that tells me Iâm not alone.
The Bear is so good. Not just in quality, but in its nature. As the landscape of television shifts in the wake of the historic Hollywood strike, the way we view and approach TV is changing. In the now-waning era of prestige TV, there has been a lot of grey morality, a lot of anti-heroes. But I think people sometimes forget that thereâs a lot of nuance in goodness. Thereâs a misguided sentiment, particularly in storytelling, that goodness is inherently boring and that evil is interesting. That bad guys are fundamentally more complex and nuanced, while good guys are straightforward and simplistic.
But the most interesting of stories are ones that are honest. And if you are genuinely honest about what it takes to be good, that journey cannot, by its nature, be boring. Because it is a story full of mistakes and sometimes successes, of half steps forward and disastrous tumbles back.
Itâs challenging and painful and only ever seems straightforward, but being a good person has never been an easy task. It seemingly demands perfection, an absolute sense of morality that never wavers and behaviour that never bends into selfishness. In such a world, mistakes can never be fixed nor forgotten. But The Bear directs you to another path, one that shows you that mistakes are part of trying, and trying is already half of the work.
Everything in the show is a concerted and deliberate effort. Nothing comes ânaturallyâ. Each character has to make the very conscious, often painful decision to do better and we the audience watch their efforts, however clumsy and uncomfortable and unskilled and even entirely ineffective. Itâs a lot like watching a young lamb learn to walk, rickety and so unsure. Every fumble we feel deep in the pits of our stomach, every smooth step forward is a soaring triumph. And it moves you.
It moves me to see people who care so much that theyâd risk embarrassment and heartbreak and the worst kinds of disappointment, not just once, but over and over and over because that is how much they care. How much they love.
And in a world that seems to ask you to care about a million different things, The Bear just cares.
Genuinely one of the best shows on TV right now! Such a great and insightful look into how a show *that* anxiety-inducing somehow always leaves me feeling hopeful â¤ď¸