The Original Beef of Chicagoland is the fitting name of the restaurant at the guts of the acclaimed FX series “The Bear,” which stars Jeremy Allen White as Carmy, a world-class chef who returns home to run his family’s sandwich shop after his older brother’s suicide. Of all American cities, Chicago is the one whose mythos is most closely related to a selected form of work: honest, meaty, broad-shouldered labor that forges you into something larger, nobler. Just like the city it’s set in, the restaurant in “The Bear” is an unpretentious place, humbly catering to “the working man.” But “the working man,” we soon learn — as a young, Black, female sous-chef mocks an older, white, male manager’s use of the label — is a contested term, especially in an environment where no person does anything but work, and just about no person has anything to point out for it.
It’s unclear, at first, why Carmy, once named considered one of Food & Wine’s “Best Latest Chefs,” has come back to the sandwich shop, but we’re step by step made to grasp that he’s returning, compulsively, to a traumatic site. Food was the thread that connected him to his brother, but his brother wouldn’t let him within the kitchen, and so off to Sonoma and Latest York he went, to make something of himself. The Original Beef of Chicagoland can be Carmy’s original beef — the core wound that ignited his ambition, the location of his connection to his family in addition to his estrangement from it.
The story of the prodigal son getting back from some summit of feat to his salt-of-the-earth hometown is a beloved American narrative, most frequently seen in Christmas movies about frazzled executives returning to their roots. They’re intended to reify the comforting notion that work isn’t all the things — that the true America is slow, easy, cozy and (above all) fair, a spot that rewards you on your efforts, stuffed with clever, avuncular coots and straightforward, patient girls who’ve been waiting all along. But when Carmy returns to Chicago, he finds his elders are either absent or trying to take advantage of him, and the one girl who’s involved in his feelings is his sister. Just as success failed to avoid wasting him, honest work won’t either; it won’t even generate enough money to get by. The Original Beef may signal noble, can-do labor, however it’s also a decompensating system on the verge of structural collapse. Just a few episodes in, the bathroom explodes, unleashing a geyser in Carmy’s face. An industrial mixer blows a fuse, knocking out the ability. The gas goes out, forcing the kitchen staff to construct makeshift grills outside. They haven’t any alternative; one missed lunch service could take them out. A Eighties arcade game called Ball Breaker blares stupidly, violently from one corner, handily summarizing the experience. “Your balls have been broken!!” its screen broadcasts. “Proceed?”
“The Bear” has been praised for its visceral depiction of the stress of an expert kitchen, but you don’t should have done restaurant work to acknowledge the chaos, panic and precarity the show captures so convincingly. In “The Bear,” work is a dumb, sadistic game that has left Carmy with unchecked PTSD. Intrusive thoughts and flashbacks fracture his consciousness; he even cooks in his sleep, almost setting his house on fire. Richie, the restaurant’s manager, takes Xanax because he suffers from “anxiety and dread.” (“Who doesn’t?” Carmy snaps.) Sydney, the sous-chef, has a cupboard filled with medication for heartburn and ulcers, problems which will have been sparked by a failed try and run her own business. (“It was the primary time I didn’t have a whole and utter psychopath behind me screaming,” she says. “And I assumed I wanted that, ? But look where that got me.”) The restaurant is drowning in bills. When the characters aren’t yelling at each other at top volume, they’re often shutting right down to deal with all of the yelling. Their customers are like kids stuck in a automobile with warring parents. The word you see most steadily in writing in regards to the show is “stressful,” however it’s often accompanied by descriptions of the workplace as “soul-crushing,” “toxic” or “abusive.” All this is meant as praise — the thought is that, despite its occasional excesses, the show has captured something relatable and true.
Hustle has all the time been romanticized in American culture, which guarantees that nobly sacrificing yourself on the altar of limitless work pays off ultimately. However it’s increasingly clear that for most individuals, it won’t. Twenty-two years ago, when Anthony Bourdain published “Kitchen Confidential,” he glamorized the kitchen as a form of foxhole, populated by wild, dysfunctional hard-asses yelling profanities at each other while managing to crank out tons of of plates every night. This may increasingly once have seemed exotic or picturesque, but that pressure-cooker environment has come to feel familiar to an increasing number of staff in an increasing number of industries. The American economy soared over the past decade, but life for many became harder: “In top-of-the-line a long time the American economy has ever recorded, families were bled dry by landlords, hospital administrators, university bursars and child-care centers,” Annie Lowrey wrote in The Atlantic in 2020. “For hundreds of thousands, a roaring economy felt precarious or downright terrible.” “The Bear” is compelling not due to the way it recreates a kitchen but since it captures something about modern work on the whole.
‘The Bear’ is compelling not due to the way it recreates a kitchen but since it captures something about modern work on the whole.
Carmy and Sydney work insane hours, rising at dawn and waiting for ‘L’ trains on dark platforms, too exhausted to take into consideration the rest. At times it seems as if work is how they escape from having to take into consideration what is occurring to them. Sydney tells someone her goal is just to do her job and live her life, however it’s abundantly clear that, outside her job, she has little life to talk of. These conditions don’t spur creativity; quite the opposite, they’re counterproductive. Carmy can’t spare time to take heed to Sydney’s ideas in regards to the dinner menu or encourage the pastry chef’s experiments with doughnuts. Exploring your talent, on this environment, might change into one other luxury the “working man” can’t afford, something that belongs exclusively to narcissists with financial backing. This inequality comes into focus early within the show: We see Carmy abused by an boastful chef and, in Chicago, paid a visit by his mobster uncle, who talks down the restaurant — the place is unfixable, he says — before attempting to buy it for himself.
Carmy is furious to learn that Richie has been dealing cocaine within the alley behind the restaurant to maintain it afloat, but Richie justifies his actions by co-opting the language of entrepreneurship, crediting this side hustle with getting the place through Covid. “That’s the form of stick-to-it-iveness and ingenuity and out-of-the-box considering that we search for in employees,” he says. “But that ship has sailed, my friend.” That is the startling milieu and message of “The Bear,” the thing that has struck a chord. The notion that hustle will eventually repay is an insidious pipe dream. Everyone seems to be in survival mode on a regular basis. The system has failed. The place is unfixable.
Source photographs: Screen grabs and images from FX