Last night my wife and I started to watch The Bear, the new show on Hulu that follows a renowned James Beard Award winning fine dining chef as he returns home to Chicago to take over the family sandwich shop. The pacing of the show feels like you’ve been shot out of a cannon. The characters in the show are busily shuffling around the cramped kitchen, simultaneously bumping into each other, cursing at each other, and helping each other. I looked over at Megan and I could see a bit of tension on her face. I think the show is designed to give you that rush, that feeling that there’s not enough time to get all of the things done. For me, it wasn’t tension that I felt. It was a little bit of melancholy touched up by some laughs mixed in with a bit of PTSD. My dad worked in kitchens for 50 years alternating between sandwich shops, all you can eat buffets, seafood spots, and everything in between. But he spent most of his career working in dingy cajun kitchens in Shreveport and Houston. Between my time bartending my way through college and my dad’s extensive experience in restaurants, the back of the house is something I know pretty well. And it reminded me of one of the last times I spent considerable time with my pop.
It was 2013 or 2014 and I was taking my first real “vacation” in 3 or 4 years. I had been a startup founder for about 3 years which means I was still extremely poor and on the hunt for a place I could hang out that was free, had cheap beer, and decent food. Naturally this meant that my dad’s place in Shreveport, LA was one of my stops.
I knew that since Bruce was nearing 70 that he was in his last year or so of working in the kitchen. Years of schlepping around the back of the house had taken their toll on his knees. In fact, it was probably a year later that he would have a double knee replacement surgery permanently putting him in the retirement house. Since my folks had split up when I was young, I never really had the opportunity to do one of those “go to work with dad” days. I have vague memories of going into the “office” with my dad when I was really little. I remember everyone calling him “Mr. Bruce” and I remember him throwing pots and pans when someone, or some thing, really pissed him off. So here I was nearing my mid 30s with what was likely the last opportunity I would ever have to go to work with my dad. So I took it.
We showed up to the raggedy old kitchen he worked in (a small cajun restaurant in a strip mall in Shreveport, LA) at 6am sharp to get started. If you’ve never prepped for a work day in a kitchen, it’s making a lot of things in 5 gallon buckets. This leads to my story.
When we showed up that day, I informed my dad that I’d worked in kitchens too you know. He looked at me over his glasses, nodded, and said “ok pal”. This was my dad’s way of saying “you’re a dipshit, we both know it, and there’s no way you’re going to know how to do anything I ask you to do over the next 4 hours”. He shuffled off, grabbed a 5 gallon bucket, some buttermilk, and a few other things that I cannot remember, and said “make some ranch dressing”.
To which my computer programming ass said “ok cool. you got some seasoning packets or…”. As soon as the words came tumbling out of my mouth, I realized my mistake. There was no seasoning packet. We are making everything from scratch. And not just enough ranch for my dad me. No, we were making enough for half of Northwest Louisiana.
My dad said something like “pour a shitload of that buttermilk into the bucket. Then take a bunch of that stuff and this stuff and some those things over there. And put them in the bucket”. I asked in what quantities and he just kinda shrugged and said to taste as I went.
Ok, cool, so I dumped a bunch of stuff into this big ol bucket. I now had 5 gallons of what vaguely resembled ranch dressing. Now I needed to stir this concoction. Since there were no oars sitting around to mix up this vat of dressing, I again asked my dad what to stir it with.
What happened next was one of the grossest things I’ve ever been a part of. He said “just use your hand”.
“My hand?”
“Yes, your hand”. I stood there, his college educated child who was now the proud co-founder of a hospitality startup company that had been written about in The Atlantic and I repeated again:
“My hand?”
At this point he hobbled across the kitchen plunged his arm wrist deep into the ranch and twirled it around until it was well mixed. I looked on in disbelief. “Don’t you have like a big mixing spoon? Or …. anything besides your hand to mix that up?” My dad chuckled and said “you do what you gotta do” and went back to getting the gumbo ready for the day.
We worked the rest of the morning and my dad let me keep the apron I wore that day. I still have it in my kitchen and bust it out when I’m making a big dinner for family or friends (don’t worry y’all; I use mixing spoons).
I’ve only made it through one episode of The Bear but the feel of the show has reminded me of my dad more than just about anything has recently. The chaos. The improvisation. The lack of anything formal or measured or written down. I love that as a dad I’m able to provide more structure and balance to my kids than my dad was able to provide me and my siblings. But it also makes me wonder could some of that chaos been a good thing for me? Who knows?
"The Bear" and why it's giving me PTSD (#28)