I have many interests in life (probably an attention span thing) and one of them is food. As a young woman alone in London I first had to learn how to cook and over the years I seem to have developed a very keen interest in it. How it works, why we do things in the kitchen, where ingredients can be found, why some things are more expensive than others. But I’m also deeply interested in stories and I’ve always believed that there is a connection there – if not for everyone then for me – in the things said around a big and loud Greek family table, in those whispered by the older women of my granny’s generation giggling while opening fyllo, in the memories of the smells. I’m romanticising, because any chef friend I have asked (and I do ask) describes the utter chaos of professional kitchens and the anxiety that comes with them. That combination – of the tender and the chaotic – is the thing that sets The Bear apart.
For a woman with a child, husband and job, I have, quite astonishingly, found myself with a lot of time on my hands these days. I’m alone in California and I work, read a lot, row (the fake kind on an erg), play Zelda and watch series I’ve been promising myself I’d get around to and somehow never did. The never ended as I waved goodbye to the boys and now some binging may have been happening. Which brings us to The Bear – the FX series about an exceptional chef from Chicago who deals with (what else) some trauma and some food.
If you haven’t watched it, it’s probably not what you think. And to be honest I had been avoiding it because I dislike Jeremy Allen White and after being burned by the infuriating plotlines of Six Feet Under years ago (which I loathe as every single character was basically a dick) – I thought I wasn’t missing anything.
I was wrong.
I got into it because I got access to HBO Max over here in the good ol’ US of A and thought “why not” on my third evening of intense boredom in the absence of a bed routine for the spawn. I spent the first season disgusted by the Richie character (played to perfection by Ebon Moss-Bachrach) then watched the tour de force that was “Fishes” (season 2, episode 6) and today I watched “Forks” (season 2, episode 7) which has probably been written as a palate cleanser for “Fishes”. (There’s actually a lot of that going on in the series – this parallelism between how a kitchen works and how a TV series unfolds – but I digress).
I won’t spoil it for you but there is a wonderful scene with Richie driving back home after work (he is staging at an exceptional restaurant), blasting Taylor Swift on the radio (a favourite of his daughter’s) and bursting with joy, exhaustion and enthusiasm.
I shed a tear and for the first time in about 10 days I missed my boy intensely.
There is this thing I believe in, that art is hidden in things that many disregard – in games, in popular music, in graffitis, in food. Sometimes, it’s difficult to find, it’s difficult to see. It can be the thing and then the things around it – like World of Warcraft is not just the game but the community around it, the stories, the raids. Food is similar to me. It’s not just the thing but it’s the prep, the thought, where I discovered the recipe, the middle eastern or Turkish shops I have to find in any city I move us to. And then the spawn’s hands, shaping Greek koulourakia for Easter with me.
And I take it back about Jeremy Allen White.
