But, of course, it’s The Bear we’re here to talk about—the latest installment of which has frustrated critics. Rather than following the beginning-middle-celebrity-cameos-end template, Season 3 is more akin to a Weezer-heavy ouverture for Part IV of Christopher Storer’s series (which, I’d wager, will be the last). Over the course of 10 Xanax-necessitating episodes, you watch as Carmy morphs, one intrusive thought and stick of “dystopian” butter at a time, into a Nicorette-addicted form of his mentor-stroke-nemesis Chef David, while every other member of The Bear family is unhappy in his or her own way. Syd’s narrative arc consists of opening and closing a Docusign that would make her a partner in the restaurant without ever actually signing it, then saying, “Umm, OK?” while Carmy trades jalapeños for Scotch bonnets. Marcus takes a leaf out of Eleven Madison Dickhead’s notebooks and tries to leapfrog all five stages of grief by making violet gelée. Cicero angsts about the “más queso” he’s invested in the Berzattos’ “popsicle stand” out of guilt over DD’s parenting (or lack thereof). There’s a sense that everyone is treading (hot) water—and while, as a viewer, it’s less satisfying than the “Every day here is the freakin’ Super Bowl!” ethos the show has embraced thus far, it needed to happen.
From the moment that Carmy lists out his 26 workplace negotiables in “Next” (“perfect means perfect,” “details matter,” “focus”), it’s clear that Storer is ready to undermine the “Every Second Counts” mentality that propelled the first 18 episodes of his Emmy-winning series forward. In his hands, the sort of drive that makes anyone plate and trash dozens of Wagyu steaks one after another begins to seem less like hustle, more like trauma displacement tinged with narcissism. And somewhere around the episode Carmy stays up all night making “dusty” Béarnaise foam, the entire cult of fine dining begins to lose its allure, too. The funeral for Ever is sad, yes, but also forces the question: Would you—would anyone—really rather be eating “asparagus with duck egg and potato raviolo, peas, and parm mousse” in a restaurant with “curved privacy walls” over a Tombstone 5 Cheese Pizza? Are you gunning for The Bear’s success, or is there a part of you aligned with the locals shouting, “Yo, fuck this fancy fuck—I want my shit” through Ebra’s window?
It’s Richie—the most reluctant of Carmy’s disciples—who best mirrors the viewer’s dilemma, caught between recognizing that his “Cousin” is, in fact, “a baby replicant who’s not self-actualized” and a desire, post-tête-à-tête with Chef Terry, to create a front-of-house environment “that embraces and encourages razzle-dazzle.” On one level, he’s quietly impressed by the overall micro-radish-ness of The Bear, but also has this response to Nat’s explanation of the Michelin Guide’s origin: “I do not give a flying fuck into a rolling doughnut about the gastronomical proclivities of some dusty French tire-marketing exec. I mean, I’m a Pirelli guy. I have been from way back. I would say that a Goodyear’s probably a more practical choice for Chicago winters. But fucking Michelin… mangia cazzo, no?”