(Editor’s Note: Episode 4 recap will be posted on July 2. This recap contains spoilers.)
Last year, The bear curbed the frenetic and ulcerative energy of his first seasonas one restaurant sheds its skin to make way for another. This bold change of pace signals that, like the deranged prodigy at the heart of its story, the show is always ready to change its menu in the name of innovation.
But what happens after the renovations are done, after the culinary travels through Chicago and Denmark are over, after the dream of a high-end restaurant built with money hidden in tomato cans (and a big loan from Uncle Jimmy) becomes a reality? What happens is the real-life grind of running a restaurant, of trying to rise to the top of a notoriously competitive industry, of spending hours on your feet in the literal and proverbial heat of a bustling kitchen, of never being able to escape the people you love. such that you could twist their pretty necks?
One of The bearThe show’s greatest strength has always been its ability to internalize its characters’ emotions, and “Doors” is a whirlwind of that. In a half-hour, the episode takes us through a month at Chicago’s hottest new restaurant, as Carmy and Sydney put their kitchen brigade model into practice in a kitchen staffed by people who, less than a year ago, worked at a neighborhood sandwich shop.
“Doors” opens by closing a chapter in the life of one of Bear’s staff members. It’s time for Marcus’s mother’s funeral, and the gang heads to a resonant church to pay their last respects. Our sweet pastry chef is a man of few words, but as we know from last season’s excellent “Honeydew,” the things he says fall like rain on a wasteland. His eulogy is simple and unadorned, praising his mother for her kindness, intelligence, creativity and sense of humor, and, of course, for being cool enough to let her son watch. RoboCop When I was small.
Above all, he expresses how much she made him feel loved and appreciated. Mother and son understood each other perfectly, he says, even when the mother was too ill to speak. “Sometimes it almost felt like the communication was better, like we had to really pay attention to each other and look at each other very closely,” Marcus says. Unfortunately, that’s a message everyone forgets the moment they leave church.
Then we’re off to the races — and into the shit. The entirety of “Doors” is accompanied by classical selections from composers like Giuseppe Verdi, Pietro Mascagni and William Vincent Wallace, with Carmy and Sydney taking turns at the conductor’s desk. The soundtrack alternately gives the episode the elegance of a ballet, the absurdity of a farce and the melodrama of an opera.
The divos here are, of course, Carm and Richie, who continue to duke it out and invade each other’s territory. But the kitchen doesn’t just belong to Bear, it belongs to Sydney, too. At 5:30 p.m., five nights a week, she pours a large bottle of Coke into a to-go container and leads her troops on their ongoing mission to serve diners the best food possible.
The first night is serene and supportive, the food as formal and sedate as any Carmy has ever staged. Everything moves to the steady beat of a metronome: “Doors!” “Hands!” “Hamachi!” But the cracks are already starting to show: The cousins argue over whether to prioritize the guests’ dietary restrictions (hint: they absolutely should); Richie gets the names of ingredients wrong when prepping the waiters for the evening ahead; and Gary breaks a cork inside a bottle of red wine.
The machine continues to accumulate gunk as the bear’s popularity grows. Richie yells at Carm because Table 17 has been waiting half an hour for their wagyu, which prompts Carm to yell at Tina for her shoddy kitchen job. Richie wants speed, Carm wants perfection, and Sydney just wants them to stop yelling at each other while she tries to do her damn job. Meanwhile, Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson) is in over his head as the sole employee at the beef sandwich window.
Despite good press and a full house, the restaurant is struggling to stay afloat. While the rest of the team struggles to keep the engine running, Natalie and Uncle Jimmy are struggling to put gas in the tank. Thanks to Carmy’s insistence on reinventing the menu every night and ordering only the finest ingredients, they’re losing money faster than they can make it. When the two confront the head chef, he dismisses them with a brusque, “Find a solution.” Nat’s professional mask falls when she confronts her stubborn brother: “Don’t buy crazy stuff to use once, Carm! It’s such a waste! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! Duh! This is why running a family business is a bad idea.”
The tension at the top begins to dissipate, to the point where dirty plates and cups pile up so fast that broken glasses begin to slice into the divers’ palms. The once-spotless kitchen surfaces are now splattered with congealed sauce and blood from knife-scratched fingers. And flour splatters on the walls have made the “EVERY SECOND COUNTS” sign nearly illegible.
The cousins’ resentment has become so vicious that Carm refuses to acknowledge Richie’s genuinely good ideas. Richie’s writing his own non-negotiables may be a game move, but his list is on point: a courtesy 24-hour notice for the kitchen to inform him of menu changes, a willingness to accommodate dietary restrictions, and “joy, just in general”—something that’s sorely lacking. Me The greatest joy? “An environment that embraces and encourages the brilliance in the dream.” Never change, Richie.
Above all, the Bear wouldn’t have survived a day without Syd. The fact that she has less experience in high-end catering (and life) than Carm is actually an asset. His baggage from working with toxic jerks like Chef Joel—not to mention years and years of childhood trauma—means he must constantly fight his instinct to lash out or shut down.
Marcus’s tribute to a mother who loved him unconditionally and made him feel heard resonates beneath all the chaos in the kitchen. Sydney has that with her father; but the love Carm grew up with—and continues to seek as an adult—is the hurtful kind. Hurt people hurt others.
Inevitably, things between Carm and Richie reach a breaking point towards the end of the month. A small argument over a customer’s request to serve a dish without mushrooms The fight turns into a full-blown physical brawl, barely contained by Marcus’s intervention. I gasped in sympathy when all of Syd’s command cards were thrown to the ground in the scuffle.
By mid-July, Carmy is completely out of it. His unanswered cries of “Hands! Hands! Hands!” on the millionth exhausting night of his exhausting life lead to the onset of a panic attack: flashes of his imprisonment in the walk-in closet, Claire’s sweet smile, the breeze ruffling his hair on a sunny day in Copenhagen. Syd, the Berzatto whisperer at the diner, talks him out of falling off the ledge; but his patience is wearing thin. “I’m not your fucking babysitter,” she snaps.
On the final day of “Doors,” we return to the silence that began the episode. But it’s a very different kind of silence than the dark peace of the church. Sydney, alone in the kitchen after closing time, stares at an order card left on the floor, scuffed by a dirty shoe print. Stick a fork in her, because this girl is do.
Scattered observations
- I hope you’ve prepared everyone close to you for the fact that you’re going to spend the next year randomly yelling, “STAY OUT OF THE DREAMWEAVING, CARMEN!” It’s the responsible thing to do.
- The series’ repetition of the phrase “Hands!”, which has been going on for years, takes on a whole new meaning at the funeral. During the eulogy, we see close-ups of the hands of the Bear employees, idly: Neil resting his on Nat’s shoulder, Nat caressing her pregnant belly, Carmy turning the memorial card in her hand, her mind fixed on the one that once hung on a shelf at Original Beef.
- Speaking of which, “Doors” is beautifully directed by a first-time director. Bear Director Duccio Fabbri worked on close-ups and cuts between shots, which are as integral to the episode’s pace and tone as the performances themselves.
- Jimmy’s utter amazement when he opens an $11,000 bill for “Orwellian butter” leads to a classic “Who’s on First?” moment. When he asks his nephew if the stuff comes from a “rare Transylvanian five-breasted goat,” Carm replies, “It’s Orwellian.” “Is it dystopian butter?” “No, Orwell, Vermont. It’s the best!” “Oh, yeah? Suck me.” (Actually, it is, a real thing; Animal Farm Creamery’s Orwellian butter sells for a modest $60 a pound.)
- “Doors” is all over the news, hailing the bear as the next big thing on the Chicago restaurant scene. But, tellingly, all the buzz is about “visionary leader” Carmy. The media’s focus on the white guy while ignoring his black creative partner is very real; I have a feeling it’s going to become a major sticking point later in the season. (Plus, I bet Carm sucks at giving interviews.)
- I really felt for Tina, who was thrown in at the deep end right out of culinary school. It was fun to see Sydney teaching her how to make ravioli, but it’s obvious that the pressure is starting to wear on T. Kudos to Liza Colón-Zayas for how easily she conveys her character’s angst through her facial expressions alone.
- While Carm spends thousands on expensive ingredients, Richie makes his mark using only plastic and papier-mâché. His cousin may hate seeing piñatas and Super Soakers pass through his kitchen. (No surprise! It’s non-negotiable!) But if Carm is really so reluctant to provide fun experiences for his guests, he never should have sent Richie to intern at Ever, where, in Jess’s words, they make someone’s day every night.
- Chef Matty Matheson is at his best in this episode. He takes a cue from Charlie Chaplin when Neil volunteers to carry a dish across the floor with instructions to pour steaming broth over the mirepoix in front of the diners. He does it until he doesn’t, proudly carrying the food back into the kitchen without really, you know, portion he.