Yes, Chef: They Did It Again (A Bittersweet Symphony)

The Bear crashed into the conversation—can we call it a "series discourse"?—three years ago, suddenly making us all talk about this kind of “soft Goodfellas in culinary form” that told the story of the Berzattos, specifically Carmy, a broken and obsessive chef deep in grief, trying to revive The Beef, the modest food joint left to him by his brother after his suicide—due to debts and other reasons that slowly unfolded episode by episode. The heart of the story, both chaotic and deeply lucid, slammed us with what felt like real-life moments pulled straight from the lives of these people, all stitched together in a frantic, early-Scorsese-style montage. The reaction was so intense that just days after its premiere, a second season was already announced.

Gradually, with some flashbacks, hushed backyard chats, and quiet conversations within the kitchen itself—amid sauces flying, liquids splashing, relentless timers hypnotizing Carmy, and dozens of “Yes, Chef!” being shouted—we started to understand these people, not just see them as characters. Because The Bear, and I’ll say this until it gets annoying, feels too real. And it’s not just my personal bias—it really feels that way. I dare say no one could feel otherwise, regardless of background, philosophy, or political beliefs. It just is. There's not much room for debate.

And you know what? That’s perfectly fine. The show never really tried to take a strong political or social stance on behalf of its characters. We’re talking about human beings trying to heal their wounds in a workplace that, no matter how chaotic it seems, ultimately brings them together. No subliminal messages, no partisan pamphlets. Just direct. Empathetic. Smartly, its creator, Christopher Storer, gives each character the attention they deserve, highlighting the sense of resilience, loyalty, and solidarity they all share. And that’s because Storer, drawing a parallel to his own experience, deeply understands what it truly takes to create something good and solid—whether it’s film or, in this case, a series: it’s a team effort.

Performances that feel pulled from a documentary, a soundtrack precisely curated to evoke emotion, sharp and vulnerable dialogue, a rhythm that never loses its balance. At this point, it’s hard to deny that The Bear is well on its way to becoming a modern classic.

But season three brought something unexpected—at least for me. After the closure of The Beef as a workspace in season two, The Bear finally arrived: the restaurant, the vision, the dream. What we were all waiting for—or maybe what the creator wanted us to think we were waiting for. A new challenge for the Berzatto family. The long-awaited big fish. The dream Mikey Berzatto once had. Hollywood’s paradoxical obsession with obsession, perfection, and ambition led me into emotional spaces I didn’t want to visit. Spaces the show gently—yet insistently—made me sit with. And in the end, I realized I didn’t want to be part of them.

So The Bear became three shows at once: the sweet, the salty, and the bittersweet.

In its salty version, the show leans into its Italian roots—loud, fiery, jarring. Made to dilate our pupils in record time. Designed to show us that humans are built for conflict, but that peace can follow when just the right amount of sweetness is added. After all, nothing lasts forever. That intense, more rock 'n’ roll tone left us shocked, mouths open, wondering if things would escalate into a sadistic dance of knives, blood, and destruction. We knew it wouldn’t go that far—but we kind of wanted it to.

The sweet version came, arguably, with Marcus, The Bear’s pastry chef, in the fourth episode of season two. While there had been flickers of warmth throughout, the trip to Denmark alongside this calm and thoughtful chef marked a shift in tempo. Slower. Meditative. The show realized it needed a breath of calm before the storm. And then came the most chaotic Christmas dinner two episodes later. That’s when we were gifted the version I personally love most.

As Richard Ashcroft said twenty-eight years ago while wandering the crowded streets of London with his beautiful and radical Bitter Sweet Symphony:

"Cause it's a bittersweet…symphony, this life.
Tryin' to make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die.
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down.
You know the one that takes you to the places
Where all the veins meet, yeah"

After focusing heavily on generational trauma and the collective insecurities of postmodern society in its third season, the series returns in its fourth to highlight the bittersweet nature of life like never before. That feeling we all carry on our lips when we wake up. That strange, persistent sense that invites us to live a beautiful day despite the burdens we carry. The Bear doesn’t deal in absolute defeats, but it knows all about the defeated—those who rise, fall… and somehow push themselves to keep going. And when they can’t find the strength, there’s always a hand there to hold them up.

Our beloved Carmy, deep in his process of inner healing, appears calmer than ever. Yes, there are fleeting but intense moments where his devotion to the school of Al God of Exaltation Pacino briefly surfaces—but Jeremy Allen White channels so much personality and force into his Carmy Berzatto that it feels like an IV drip pumping fresh vitality into the young actor’s craft. “Hey, I’m acting here!” says the blue-eyed stranger, locking eyes with ours. His crowning moment, if I may be so bold, comes from two rarely aligned elements: the art of acting, and the art of saying everything while saying nothing. It's not new, but it is, I repeat, definitive.

And the rest? Well, they’re more or less the same lovable mess as before. Connecting with Sydney’s mix of kindness and imbalance, Richie’s soft-spoken madness, the Fak brothers’ chaotic yet tender foolishness, Marcus’s warmth and simplicity, and Tina’s quiet drive to grow has never been easier than it is now. We know them. We truly know who they are. And sure, The Bear occasionally indulges in stretching its narrative like an open Bible, sprawling across pages—but that doesn’t mean I’d ever set them aside. They did it again. They pulled me back into life’s bittersweet symphony, and I—someone who often leans too far into the overly salty or overly sweet—had the joy of finding myself with them once more.

Published on JULY 5, 2025, 12:00 PM | UTC-GMT -3

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