Cousin, this is why The Bear is fucking delicious

I’m telling you. The Bear is a fucking gorgeous show. It’s salty, sour, sweet, and spicy. The show is like a beautiful dish layered with flavors. I know the season 3 was a bummer, but when a three-star restaurant does some dumb shit, people kind of get it. “Yeah, they reached the top. Of course, they would venture off to somewhere stupid.”

Look at the story, cousin. Gaze and dissect it. What do you see? I see individual trauma, the restaurant industry, Chicago, New York, Copenhagen, hospitality, drug abuse, nasty obsessions, shattered relationships, death of loved ones, family disasters, yeasty donuts, messy sandwiches, risotto with a ribbon of brine, dull knives, green tapes, molded walls, San Marzano tomatoes, and the sound of Sydney crushing chips on a fucking omelette.

Cousin, I cry watching these episodes. Because I feel like the 45-year-old dude wiping forks all day to get a hold on life’s purpose. Because I panic at the sputter of that god-damn ticket printer on a steel countertop. Because I very well empathize with the “every second counts” mentality to grow as a human being.

The Bear knows we all crave authenticity. That’s why it doesn’t care if the real-world chefs were awkward as fuck in front of cameras. You know, the actors getting trained to cut veggies like pro chefs is not enough. Even when “the rotten tomatoes” are thrown at its face, The Bear will follow the gilded path of Eleven Madison Park.

Fuck the fans. Fuck the critics. Fuck the investors. I will turn The Bear on and wait for it to serve something that I could not have dreamed of. The spectators will be worried, but the balloon will not pop. Fuck me Storer and do what others are scared of.

Let it rip.