Recently, I made a post on Tumblr:
If you don’t know it, The Bear is a show on FX/Hulu about Carmen Berzatto, a Michelin star level chef who ends up taking over his brother’s Italian Beef shop after he kills himself. It is labeled as a ‘comedy’ by the Emmy’s but it is absolutely not. While there are comedic elements it’s mostly a high tension show that switches almost exclusively between people making beautiful food and those same people screaming at each other. It is very good. It deserves all the awards. But God damn do the Emmy’s need to create a new a category for shows like this because it is absolutely not a comedy, and neither is Barry or Beef for that matter.
It is not, actually, directly about the fact that Carmy and gang are participating in the gentrification of this neighborhood but that is what is happening, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who noticed because my stupid little post took off. Mostly with a lot of agreement. But also, a lot of this:
I haven’t responded on the post because honestly I don’t want to fuck with it just to respond to a bunch of people who have a bad opinion. Because it is. Bad.
So, yes, by the end of season two and at the beginning of season three, Carmy has officially changed his brother’s Italian Beef shop to The Bear, a high-falutin place with tiny ass portions and astronomical prices because they are pinning all of their hopes and dreams and aspirations and will-to-lives (wills-to-live?) on getting a Michelin star.
And yes, they still sell the Italian Beef sandwiches.
Out of a take-out window.
In the back.
Near the dumpsters.
Manned entirely by one (1) employee.
And I want to know – do people really think this is good? Actually, forget good, do people really think this is good enough?
Just imagine your favorite mom-and-pop type restaurant. Doesn’t have to be Italian Beef. Could be pizza. Other subs. Tacos. Korean. Whatever. Doesn’t matter what type of food it is because when you get down to it, all of these places share certain vibes. A little hole in the wall with an outside that is somewhere between ‘sketchy’ and ‘I am definitely going to get stabbed.’ You go in and everybody who works there is yelling at everybody else who works there and some of the other customers. You recognize that the customers who are getting yelled at are family, either literally or by virtue of being there every single day. You order food. It is reasonably priced. It is also some of the best food you’ve ever had in your life. You sit in the small dining room and listen to the yelling and maybe whatever music they have coming from the thirty-year old boombox they have on the counter or if not that then the TV they have on in the kitchen playing daytime TV in whatever the dominating language of the restaurant is. It is warm. It is bordering on cozy. Maybe you go there so often that eventually they are also yelling at you. Because you’ve become family, too.
Now that place is gone. Closed. You can see through the front window when you walk by that the interior has been completely gutted. There’s no sign that the place has been bought out and you can see the regular staff inside working on the remodel. Good for them, you think, they got the money to spruce the place up. You can’t wait to see what the inside looks like.
It opens with a new name. You search for the new website. You double check. Triple check. This can’t be the right place, can it? This isn’t the food you’ve been eating on a weekly basis. This is fine dining. You can’t identify some of the food in the pictures. They’re using words you’ve maybe only heard in passing and have a sort of vague understanding of but couldn’t define if asked. Things like reduction and crème fraiche. There’s no menu until a week before reopening. There’s no prices listed. You may not know a lot about fine dining, but you know that if the prices aren’t listed you cannot fucking afford it. There’s also a huge banner up top.
RESERVATIONS REQUIRED.
Jesus fucking Christ, reservations? Reservations?
You come around opening week, and sure enough this restaurant is no longer a home of yours. Same staff, but they’re all dressed up now. Suits. Dresses. Chef’s coats. The interior is completely changed. It doesn’t look like home. It looks like an untouched room of some actor’s mansion you see in a copy of Architectural Digest while waiting in a doctor’s office. The place is filled. You’ve never seen any of these people in your life. Their cars are in the tiny parking lot next door. A single one of these cars costs more than all of the cars that used to park there.
You complain about it to friends. Most of them are completely with you. It’s a shame. They loved that place, too. But there’s that one friend. There’s always that one friend. He perks up. He smirks at you. He does not think he’s delivering good information. He thinks he’s delivering the killing blow to prove you wrong and thus make him superior.
“Actually,” he says. “They still sell their old food. It’s at a walk up window in the back.”
Why do you even hang out with this guy again?
He may be a smug prick, but it turns out he’s right. You check the website again and there it is, in small, unassuming letters at the bottom of the main page. You get a little hopeful. And a little hungry. The food is still there. A piece of that home is still there! They didn’t abandon you. Not completely.
You go the next day, leaving work for lunch because this little window is only open for lunch hours. There is a line, just like the old days. You recognize some of these people, people from around the neighborhood. Despite everything, you are getting excited. This is it. You haven’t had this food in months. You are dreaming of your old order.
The line does not move. And does not move. People are shifting around. Getting uncomfortable standing there. You check your watch. You need to be back in front of your computer in thirty minutes. It’s already been ten, and only two people in the line have gotten anything.
While waiting, you notice the menu. It is diminished. Severely. There are three things on this menu. The core of what they used to serve, and nothing else.
You finally get to the front and discover why this line has taken so long. There is only one person working the window.
One.
You can hear a commotion from inside, beyond this man and his window. You’ve seen other employees arrive and go in through the side. But they are not here for the window. They are here for the new restaurant. The fancy one you can’t afford. They are prepping for the dinner that will be served after the window has been closed. After you and the locals have left.
One man taking the orders. One man making the orders. They have a few wooden picnic tables and you sit and wait at the edge of one. It is January in Chicago. Or it is August in Orlando. Or it some other combination that adds up to ‘No one in their right mind would be outside right now.’ Maybe the restaurant put up some space heaters, or misters and umbrellas, or something to help. Probably they didn’t, and you wait, miserably, for your food.
Finally the single man working the window with the impossible line calls your name. You get your food. It is every bit as good as it used to be. For a few minutes, you are satiated. You are satisfied. You think, maybe this will work.
But it has taken nearly half an hour just to get your food. You need to be back in front of your computer in fifteen minutes and you’re just starting to eat and then there’s the ten minute walk back. You will be late. Fine for today. But you can’t make it a habit.
Then you start to notice the ‘outside’ of it all again. The wooden bench is biting into your ass. The temperature is making you regret every clothing decision you made that day. Occasionally whiffs of the dumpsters around the corner brush gently by your nose, making you question your appetite. People are still showing up. People want the food. The line is just as long and does not go any faster. How could it? There is only one man.
You think, maybe I can just come on the weekends, but hesitate. Will they have more people working the window on the weekends? Somehow, you doubt it. And if the line is this long on a Tuesday, how bad will be it on a Saturday? The few tables are already packed with people, will it be worse on a weekend?
How much thought, really, did they put into this situation?
As you leave you stop to look at the menu of the new place. There is none. There is a sign that says they change the menu every day. You realize you have no idea what sort of food they even serve in there.
As you walk home, you become bitter.
The window in the back does not seem to be a way for these people to stay connected to the neighborhood, to the food they used to serve, to the way it used to be. No, no, the window is only one thing. A pittance. One you don’t particularly need anymore.
I’ve thought about responding to this particular criticism by reblogging the actual post, but I didn’t want to do that for a few reasons. One, the initial joke is short and snappy and I didn’t want to weigh it down with this…I don’t know if this is an essay or a y/n fanfiction at this point, honestly. Two, the original post was a hypothetical based on The Bear so it doesn’t fucking matter that they still serve the sandwiches out a back window in the show, does anyone think something like that would happen in real life? And three, I made the post the day the third season dropped, June 27th, after my husband and I watched a single episode. We don’t binge. They only briefly kind of, sort of mention that there is a window in the back. I literally did not know there was a window. Technically, all these people have been spoiling the show for me. Jerks.
If you haven’t seen The Bear, ignore that I’ve also spoiled some stuff and go watch it, because the stuff I’ve talked about hardly counts as actual spoilers and the show is buckwild. I think the second season episode “Fishes” might have actually given me a minor heart episode.
High Urban Fantasy Jazz 