The ebullient feminism of The Bear

This series dares to portray what could happen if the hierarchical structures of the restaurant business could be collapsed to allow for pleasure, joy and fraternity among co-workers

Had I known the Venice Biennale pre-opening would mainly involve serpentine queues that seem to stretch all the way into the lagoon, I would not have bothered going. I’ve visited two previous editions of the arts biennale, but always during non-rush hours, weeks after the visitor dust had settled. It’s a deeply pleasant experience. I’ve memories of the scent of jasmine intervening with the sea salt air and blue skies and sunshine. After the main exhibition at either Arsenale or Giardini, one could enter the various national pavilions with ease. This leisurely element was totally missing from my visit last week. I finally understood the expression ‘the art world has descended’. Unfortunately, most of that world, as I suggested last time, involves heads of institutions or gallery owners and curators, people who are deeply invested in power networking. Around the evening of my first day there, there was a moment when it seemed like the skies would explode and I felt suddenly anxious at the thought of being stuck at Giardini with this crowd. I made my way to the Vaporetto and rushed back to my hotel room.

I needed the refuge that only solitude could offer. I was lucky to be child-free. I went to the little supermarket near the bed and breakfast I was staying at in the San Tomas vicinity and bought myself a bunch of fun snacks. For some reason, they had a special section dedicated to Japanese snacks. I decided to try out hickory smoked sunflower seeds, among other things, and bought berries and yoghurt. In my previous life I would have bought myself a beer, but motherhood has made a teetotaller of me. I was also really sick, so alcohol was the last thing on my mind. After paying for the various things that constituted my care package, I went to the room I was lucky enough to have procured for less than 110 Euros. I remember feeling deeply sceptical at the time of booking that a room in the heart of Venice could cost only 105 Euros (with my ‘genius’ discount) during the pre-opening week. The caveat was that the bathroom was not inside the room but adjacent. You had to exit the room and go next door. It was still private, as in only I had the key to it. It was not a bad deal at all, perfect for someone flying solo.

As soon as I got in, I took off my fancy clothes and wore something loose and comfortable. Anyone who might have seen me now would have been sure I was retiring for the evening. I sat by the table and ate my snacks while solving either a crossword or a Spelling Bee and then, I lay in bed and decided I wanted to watch something. There was a series I had heard of, through TikTok, but had never found the time to check out. I was able to find it online and before long, I was totally immersed in ‘The Bear’.

I couldn’t remember the last time I ‘fell’ so madly in love with the pilot episode of a show. It’s not just that the show is about a cook and about cooking, which is one of my deepest loves. It’s about how it tackles facets of toxic masculinity head-on, how it reveals so many dimensions to its primary characters, always suggesting, never telling you anything in a way that makes you feel like your own intelligence or intuition has been betrayed. The show feels like the embodiment of a conversation I once had with an artist friend who runs what is called a ‘Buschenschank’ in Ritten, the mountain neighbouring Bozen/Bolzano. Her gorgeous space is multipurpose. She keeps pigs, sheep and chickens, grows many vegetables, berries and herbs and rents out the top-most room to guests. She has a beautiful dining area, a traditional South Tyrolean ‘stube’ with wooden tables and chairs. I have cooked in her messy kitchen and Maggie and I have had countless conversations while prepping together and serving. I cooked twice for more than 20 people, three-course meals with no additional help except for my collaborative partner. It was exhausting and I thought, never again without additional help. Watching ‘The Bear’ I realised there is no such thing as enough help. Maggie and I once spoke about the difference between a Michelin star meal and a meal at an inn. We both preferred the later because the former involves an army whose labour is frequently invisbilised. ‘The Bear’ seems to want to think through what can happen if the restaurant business was somehow feminised, if the hierarchical structures could be collapsed to allow for pleasure, joy and fraternity among co-workers. I am five episodes into the first season. I’ve no idea what will happen next. I’m told by friends that the second season is next level. Given how chaotic our life currently is with frequent illness thanks to our child going to daycare, it’s possible it could be months before I see the final episode of season two. But I am rooting for every single character in that show while savouring the loving, caring way in which the making of food is depicted and what the show has to say about the notion of self-care. I cannot recommend it enough.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.

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