This Season of 'The Bear' Reminds Me Why Working in Restaurants Can Be So Joyful

Providing hospitality is at the heart of why restaurant people love what they do.

One snowy night last February, as I was eating dinner at Le Select, a buzzy French restaurant in Chicago, the volume in the room filled with chefs and restaurant industry people suddenly spiked. I looked up to see the cast of The Bear settling into a banquette. More than one person whipped out a cell phone to surreptitiously take photos, but later, as I chatted with a few chefs at the bar, several made a point of telling me they did not watch the show, as they had heard it was too triggering for people in the industry.

It’s no surprise that when chefs and civilians gather these days, The Bear comes up. As a former restaurant cook, bartender, host, and server who is now out of that world, I was wary of the show before I watched the first episode, anticipating a sanitized version of restaurant life (Weekends off! Clean fingernails! A healthy work/life balance!). I was relieved and even proud to see how real it felt.

With that said, I understand that the gritty reality that thrilled me hit too close to home with industry people who live (or lived) through angry customers, burned arms, and a stove that dies halfway through service when the ticket machine won’t stop. But if Season One of The Bear was about showing the reality of how hard restaurant life can be, Season Two include a few reminders of why we love it, and the moments when working in restaurants feels like the best thing you can do with your life.

I’m including myself in that “we.” I know my station in front of a computer and not a cutting board is an easier one, but I lived that life long enough to have felt called back to it in “Review,” the seventh episode of the first season. I sat up ramrod straight on my sofa for the entirety of those 20 minutes filmed in an unbroken shot, and am not sure I blinked or breathed as that damn machine kept spitting out order tickets and chef-owner Carmy screamed his countdown to opening while general manager Richie screamed at the sous chef, Sydney. I knew in their hearts all three were screaming at the customers who ordered food they had no hope of providing. That episode took me back to every Saturday night when my mise en place was running low and large parties kept pouring into the restaurant, ordering off my station like a malicious joke. That episode was a cook's version of a horror movie; I wanted to shout “Don't turn on that machine!” as though they were walking into a dark house filled with axe murderers. Leave. Go. Find another job, another life. Save yourself from this industry.

But “Forks,” the seventh episode of the second season, focuses squarely on the act of service, and in doing so, shows just why a lot of chefs and cooks don’t walk away, even when it makes sense. We see the monotony of restaurant work, but also how doing the same thing day after day makes you understand it more and improve it, whether you are polishing a fork or roasting a chicken. We watch Richie — arguably the show's prickliest character, repeatedly lashing out as he ached to find his place when the restaurant that was his home changed completely — evolve during his stage at what is supposed to be the best restaurant in the world. Richie began to understand their way of offering hospitality when the manager announced they were comping the bill for a married pair of school teachers who had saved up all year for their dinner. That episode was Richie’s transformation. Up until then, he was a character so hurt by life that the only emotion he expressed was anger. But in that episode, he jumped to exceed expectations for a guest who was leaving Chicago without having had deep-dish pizza by running out to pick up a pie for them. He did it because he wanted that rush of emotion you get when you know you are just knocking someone over with kindness. In that moment, Richie developed respect for the art of hospitality, and for his own role in providing it. At the end of the episode, we see him in his car, belting out Taylor Swift's “Love Story,” gleeful now that he understood how it feels to offer someone generosity and care. In doing so, he found where he belonged in his own restaurant.

Once again, I was sitting upright and unblinking and on the verge of tears, but this time from joy. I've had that same opportunity to give someone a meal they'll remember forever. Years ago, I was a host at Carlucci, a somewhat upscale Italian restaurant in Chicago that attracted a roomful of celebrities and stylish people each night. We were accustomed to having Harrison Ford and Paul Newman in when they were filming a movie in town. Local news anchors were regulars, and Oprah Winfrey knew to wait in her limo until her table was ready before sprinting in to get to the private room. It was a beautiful restaurant full of beautiful people.

And one Saturday night, a young couple walked up to the host stand, exuding excitement. Their eagerness bounced off them as they smiled and announced their names. I saw how thrilled they were to get to be in a space the rest of us took for granted, their eyes darting around the room to spot the cardinal at his usual perch, a model lounging on the banquette, Jerry Springer glowering at us from the terrible table we gave him every time. I noted that they were dressed up but wore slightly beat-up shoes, and understood that this dinner was an event, one that had taken some nerve to book and time to save up for.

It was one of the pleasures of my working life to mark them as VIPs on the books, and then escort them to the best table in the restaurant: number 52, the booth across from the fireplace that divided our two dining rooms. I seated them, then returned a minute later with two glasses of sparkling wine. "Oh no, we didn't ..." the guy started to protest, and I knew he was already worried about the bill. I announced they were on us, as we wanted to make sure their night was a special one.

Their confusion melted into bliss as their server and I checked in on them throughout the night, sending over a little antipasti to enjoy while they read the menu, an extra dessert when they were clearly torn between two but only ordered one, a splash of Moscato to wrap up the evening. We waited on dozens of VIPs while I was there, but years later, they were my favorites. The broad smiles on their faces as they stopped to thank us on their way out were enough. We had seen their hope for a special evening and blew away their expectations.

Related: Decoding Carmy's Cookbook Shelves on 'The Bear'

A few years later, another restaurant showed me a wildly unexpected upside to having my purse stolen at the Miami airport while trying to get home to Chicago. When I went to the Apple store to buy a new phone, the process took hours, between all the authorizations and my inability to answer a single technical question about my phone or my billing plan. John, the sales rep, and I chatted while we waited for AT&T to authorize my account. He mentioned that he and his girlfriend were artists, and I told him that I wrote about food and restaurants. His face brightened as he told me that they lived in the warehouse district, and that every day on their way to work, they passed Piccolo Sogno, an Italian restaurant with a giant mural of two angel wings painted on the side of the building. He and his girlfriend loved the design of those wings, and when he proposed to her and didn’t have the money to buy an engagement ring, they each got an angel wing tattooed on their wrist instead. He showed me his tattoo, told me that they planned to get married a year from that weekend, and asked if I could suggest a restaurant that was inexpensive but would be nice enough for a celebration dinner. I got his phone number, told him I’d call the next day, and promised that he was in good hands.

That next morning, armed with my new cell phone, I called my friend Tony Priolo, the chef and owner of Piccolo Sogno. I told him about the couple and how much they loved riding the bus past his restaurant each day, peeking into the beautiful back patio garden. I described their tattoos and what his restaurant logo — symbolizing “little dream,” the translation of Piccolo Sogno — meant to them. I told him that John wanted to mark their wedding coming up in a year, and asked if I could book a table for them that weekend, and preorder a few extras to send to them as soon as I got my new credit card from the bank.

Tony cut me off. “Chandra, are you kidding me?! This couple is not going to pay for anything!” There it was — that instinctual joy and knee-jerk reaction a restaurant person has when they find out they can create a memorable experience for a guest. I called John, told him he was set with a reservation and not to worry, even though I knew he had no idea what to expect.

The next day, Tony called me to tell me about the night. John and his fiance had been VIP'd, and seated at a prime table in the restaurant's flower-filled garden. They drank wine and ate antipasti, then pastas, the branzino special, and a few desserts. Tony introduced himself, told them they were his guests that night, and thanked them for making his week with their story as they showed him the angel wings on their wrists. Ciro, his business partner, poured them prosecco and toasted their forthcoming wedding. Ciro's mother was visiting from Italy, and went over to meet them and exclaim over their story. Tony laughed and said he thought there was a good chance Ciro's 80-year-old mother was going to get the same tattoo to match theirs. He sounded almost tearful as he shared the story, and how much it meant to him and his team that their restaurant was so important to this young couple.

I remember that feeling so well. You see how your hard work can transform someone’s night, and in doing so, you put some good out into the world. And maybe it means enough to those guests that they still tell their friends about those nights, just like I do.

I know I’m romanticizing all of this. But I believe that it means something, those moments that take place in restaurants. It's easy to forget when you are getting crunched by invoices and stood up by diners and criticized at every turn. That night at Le Select, I chatted briefly with the cast of The Bear, and somewhat awkwardly thanked them for their work, like you thank someone in a military uniform for their service. I told them it was important to me and other industry people that they showed what restaurant life is really about. Because even though the work is so hard, it is also so good. And that means something. 

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