Yawn.
Mangal II is not ‘The Bear’.
It’s a real business, with a real story, with two very real brothers (both of whom are alive, I must stress) who worked together to make the changes and improvements you see today. All backed by a strong team who are dedicated and committed.
We don’t throw pans. We don’t stab one another. We don’t get locked in the cold room. We don’t swear at each other. We don’t have a quirky handyman who fixes everything (well, we do have Jordan but he’s way more than that, he’s the restaurant manager). We don’t have a Richie, or a Sydney, or a Tina or a weird insidious old man who we owe money to. Carmy is a fictionalised character with sleep deprivations and an inability to function outside the realms of the kitchen. Michael was a drug addict hedonist who sadly committed suicide after racking up serious debt, but then cryptically hid cash in the kitchen. This is not our story. Sertac has a balanced, good life with a partner and a dog and a new restaurant opening up soon. Ferhat (again, must stress, who is very much alive) hates cocaine. If there is hidden cash, I want dibs.
The similarities with my brother going to Copenhagen and coming back, and Carmy doing the same, is familiar but also not too rare. Copenhagen has recently been at the forefront of all gastronomic development, so it is an all-too-common pilgrimage. And chefs returning home after their stint there is also a common migration seeing as very few professionals live there indefinitely. I alone could name 10 who have made that loop journey and I don’t even hang out with many chefs.
The number of mentions of my restaurant being similar to the ‘The Bear’, both in person and online via media agencies, is now becoming a thing. It was initially amusing, then bemusing, and now, irritating.
And that’s coming from a huge fan of the show. I love it. I love the backstory of each character, their growth and development and in some cases, digression. I love the way the kitchen and team are captured, the pressure cooker world of life and death between each service. I love how the show captures the lonely, emptiness one feels post-dramatic shift, and the quiet solace in each person’s commute to work. I love the awkwardness of navigating between being a god in the kitchen and a civilian once you step outside and face the real world. I love the relationship dynamics at play, the manic energy of the family meal, and the heightened tension it all ensues. As a divorced father, I cried 3 times during Richie’s episode in season 2, and had to take a long pause as he had a show-stealing scene with Olivia Colman. I needed a cigarette or two and some deep breaths before I dived back in.
But I am not Richie. I am not Michael. Sertac is not Carmy. And Jordan is not Fak. Jack is not Sydney. And Poppy is not Tina. My dad is not Uncle Jimmy, and neither is the annoying Kurdish mafia of Dalston who want handouts every year (which we refuse). My sister is not Sugar and my mum is not Jamie Lee fucking Curtis, though she is also tall and can be imposing now and then, I guess.
Look, ok, there are some loose similarities. But Mangal II is way, way more than that. It is, first and foremost, an immigrant’s tale from our father and mother. They came to London without any formal education and without the ability to speak any English. They lived in squats all over Hackney until the council granted them a home in Dalston. They stepped into a world so alien and came out the other side rock solid. Surviving in a city is tough enough, and if you’re a foreigner without a grasp of the language and any connection, quadruple that. Then double it. Our story is an immigrant’s story. Our success is the immigrant’s success. It’s not about a family torn apart by the tragic loss of life of one of the sons. It is about perseverance, a collective effort, and subsequent success. But we were successful and somewhat iconic pre-pandemic as a very well-respected kebab house, and we thankfully are again well-revered now with all the changes Sertac and I implemented together. We were never down and out, like in the show. We were never shut except when everywhere else was shut during the pandemic.
The comparisons are lazy, bemusing, and at worse, offensive. Initially, I could somewhat understand to a small degree why we were affiliated with the show in a general sense. But now it’s just repetitive nonsense.
Allow a wonderful, captivating show to be just that, a show. And let a real restaurant with real staff and real owners to exist as its own thing. Not everything has a layer of coincidence and not everything has to be affiliated with another. Things exist. Things are similar to other things, but they are not the same. This very recent and infuriating media fetishization of the restaurant industry, of the lifestyle, and also of chefs, is not particularly helpful to real individuals who have put in a lifetime’s work to hone a craft which in essence is aimed to feed and nourish people. I’m not saying the show does this – I feel the general message is one of dedication, loss, family and overcoming one’s demons. Mangal II’s message is one of immigration, survival, adaptation, and being a part of the rich tapestry of London’s dining culture.
Chicago is Chicago. London is London. Berzatto is Berzatto. Dirik is Dirik. The Bear is The Bear. Mangal II is Mangal II.
And, as far as I can recall, the show has zero scenes with giant lumps of charcoal, ocakbasi cooking, wobbly tables and low-intervention wines.
Anyway, I can’t wait for season 3. Will Carmy learn to love and accept being loved (and stop being a dick)? Will Sydney stop being condescending? Will Richie stay on the career growth straight and narrow? Will Marcus whip us up a delicious doughnut? Will Uncle Jimmy make up his mind whether he is an Italian-American gangster or a Polish-American one? Will Fak shower? Will Pete (Sugar’s husband) put on the marigolds and do a hero shift when Ebraheim storms off in anger because he has flashbacks of the Somalian civil war? Will the walls collapse again, and is there more hidden cash? It’s entertaining, tv gold, and I can’t get enough of it. But just, please, accept it for what it is: A show.
The Bore of The Bear (comparisons).