Column

Culture

Eating

Hospitality

1 April 2024

6 min read

We could all benefit from hospitality’s bear hug

In a compelling series, The Bear offers a richer and nuanced redemptive journey.

Krish Kandiah

Krish is a social entrepreneur partnering across civil society, faith communities, government and philanthropy. He founded The Sanctuary Foundation.

A tired-looking chef turns around to look across his shoulder.

Jeremy Allen White plays Carmy.

FXP.

I only need to watch a few minutes of Gordon Ramsey’s Hell’s Kitchen to remind me that toxic environments not only still exist, but all too often are glorified. From bitter previous experience I know that employers can bully, lie and manipulate those beneath them, and apparently get away with it. I have sadly seen how the Christian virtues of turning the other cheek and forgiving your enemies can serve to collude with a toxic environment. However, I also dare to hope that another Christian virtue – that of hospitality – can foster quite a different environment. I have been thinking about this a lot recently as it tallies with themes explored in another chef show - the global smash-hit multi-award-winning US TV series, The Bear.

The drama is set in the high-intensity world of the Chicago hospitality industry. The story revolves around a character called Carmy, played by Jeremy Allen White. Carmy has made his name in gastronomy and has won and retained multiple Michelin stars. But when his beloved brother Mikey commits suicide, Carmy returns to Chicago to take over his brother’s failing sandwich shop called “The Beef.”

Putting a grieving world-class chef in the middle of a bankrupt dysfunctional sandwich shop in the cheap side of Chicago is a great concept for an intense drama. It is set up to be a classic rags-to-riches journey and so we wait to see how, with a bit of spit, polish and hard work, transformation against the odds is possible. Although, inevitably, the narrative arc of the show does follow the well-trodden American Dream theme of outsiders whose hard work turns things around, this is not a simple tale. There’s a richer and more nuanced redemptive journey offered in this compelling series.

The show has won critical acclaim and I believe it is due in part to the fascinating combination of three important overlapping hospitality themes that each offer us some signposts for changing the culture of toxic environments. They also happen to point to how Christian hospitality teaching is as relevant today as ever.

The vulnerability of hospitality

“The more I learn about Michael, the less I understand.”

Ebraheim

Everyone in the relational ecosystem of this television show has a major flaw. There are no messianic figures. Everyone is carrying great deal of pain and vulnerability. The ever-anxious Carmy is a recovering addict and finds solace in total immersion in his work. The rising-star sous-chef, Sydney, played by Ayo Edebiri, is grieving the loss of her mother and the serial failures of her previous businesses. The emotionally illiterate cousin, Richie, played by Ebon Moss-Bachrach, is becoming alienated from his wife and his daughter and as a result causes physical or relational chaos everywhere he goes.

Watching this show is a journey to the dark side. The pyscho-social dysfunction of the characters matches the organisational and financial mess of the sandwich bar itself. Everything goes wrong: crumbling walls, failed safety inspections and the self-sabotage of the staff team. It’s great viewing at the end of a difficult day: any minor chaos I am experiencing is relativised by the all-consuming disarray of The Beef.

Despite their flaws, we find ourselves rooting for the characters. Hollywood seems to have borrowed this idea from the Christian faith: never underestimate the underdogs. From its earliest days the church was made up of a seemingly socially impossible group of people: a suspicious collaborator, a trouble-making insurgent, as well as other socially stigmatised men and women. You don’t have to spend long in a local congregation of Christians to encounter the same social paradoxes. The unlikely, often uncomfortable gathering of believers from different walks of life is both the beauty and the bane of the church. People are both sharp and sweet, weird, awkward and challenging and yet somehow there’s not only something irresistibly moreish about their company, but the persistent belief that these are the ones who will ultimately be vindicated, honoured and rewarded.

The hope of hospitality

“I think this place could be so different from all the other places we’ve been at.”

Sydney

The continuous omnishambles of The Beef feels like a mirror of our own political moment. Swapping the leader at the top does not resolve the systemic problems. There is no overnight transformation. In fact, things must get worse before anything changes for the better. Personal existential demons need to be faced before the restaurant can begin to be turned around, and, even then, they still need an end-of-season miracle.
So much of our public life, whether it is in the politics of the church or the politics of our nation, looks like the early chaos of The Beef. A fancy new menu, a charismatic new leader, a new shiny piece of technology or even a quick-fix new work regime cannot take away the anger and the misery and the brokenness. What does seem to pay dividends in the show is the gradual inculcation of a culture of dignity, respect and commitment to one another.

Every employee at The Beef begins to refer to one other as “Chef.” This recognition of the value of the other, the regular voicing of the importance and equality of your fellow employees is part of a gradual culture change in the restaurant. The change in language is not a magic bullet for the transformation but rather a small, but important, expression of new culture of dignity that is being established. This same kind of culture change is urgently needed in our church and nation. Finding ways to express respect to one another might not be a bad place to start.

It becomes one of the highest honours for the cooks to prepare the “family meal” where the staff gather for food together after the shift is done. It turns into a moment of communion and reconnection in the chaos of the day. It reminds me of how the Lord’s Supper was always meant to be – a reason to come together and remember and hope.

The power of hospitality

“I’m gonna fix this place.”

Carmy

Season 2 tells the story of creating a Michelin-Star-worthy restaurant in the transformed shell of what had been The Beef sandwich shop. Most of the dysfunctional characters go on a series of journeys of discovery and transformation. One of the chefs goes to Denmark and learns the power of discipline and how to produce micro-cuisine. Another goes on a weeklong haute cuisine boot camp at the highest quality restaurant in the world. Beginning with the simple task of washing forks he is gradually inducted into the culture of excellence and service of the restaurant, where nothing is too much trouble in their aim to give guests an unforgettable experience of hospitality. Richie’s 45-minute make-over is the worst and best episode. The transformation is too complete too quickly, but its message is clear: there is hope for even the most dysfunctional person.

“You have this minute when you’re watching the fire and you’re thinking: If I don’t do anything, this place will burn down and all my anxiety will go away with it. And then you put the fire out. Then you put the fire out.”

Carmy

As I binge-watched this series, I found myself thinking long and hard about the church. I have tasted the toxicity that too often seeps in and spreads pain, causes harm and thwarts whatever good they are trying to do. I have also tasted the opposite, when the church has extended welcome to the homeless, refugees or children in care, and people encounter hope and transformation. When I feel like giving up on the church, I remember how delicious that really is and am re-motivated to do whatever I can to make it the best place in town.

Article

Art

Culture

Film & TV

21 January 2025

5 min read

The constant pull of David Lynch’s direction

What made the director’s films so universally resonant?

Sonny Tindall

Sonny works creatively with videography, graphic design, fashion, and photography.

Lynch painting.

At the age of 16, initially wanting to experience the infamous performances of actors, John Hurt and Anthony Hopkins, I decided to watch The Elephant Man (1980). This was the film that opened up the weird and wonderful world of director, David Lynch, a world I immediately wanted to dive headfirst into.

I did so by watching the film that became the catalyst for world-renowned director and producer, Mel Brooks, offering Lynch the chance to direct The Elephant Man. The film in question? His very first, Eraserhead (1977).

It was, and remains to this day, the most singular cinematic experience of my life.

I’m of the opinion that almost all filmmakers fall in to one of two categories; those who become artists through the medium of filmmaking, and those who are already artists who choose the vehicle of filmmaking to create their art. David Lynch is, for me at least, the ultimate embodiment of the latter. Proof of such can be found in his status as a renaissance man.

Originally a painter, a practice he continued throughout his life, his desire to transition to making films was borne out of wanting to see his paintings move. He was also an actor, a musician, and sound designer. Not to mention, a furniture designer who regularly built props for his films, author of several books and designer of his very own comic book.

The television show, Twin Peaks, is perhaps the best example of just how impossible it was to bind Lynch to a single artistic form. The seminal TV show revolutionised what television could be, as it was the first show to stray from the episodic storytelling format, instead choosing to follow one continual storyline through an entire series.

David Lynch exists within an exclusive category of artists, those whose names have become an adjective. Lynchian, similar to Kafkaesque, Brechtian or Daliesque, is recognised as an official word in the Oxford dictionary. An eponymous adjective is an honour reserved for only the most unique and distinct of artists.

Although it could be argued that the term – Lynchian - is now too loosely applied to anything deemed to be somewhat counter-cultural within mainstream cinema, its true meaning relates to the often indefinable style and voice of the man himself.

He invoked the spiritual depths of us, the existential longings and cravings, the questions that seem intrinsic to the human condition, the wonderings that feel as though they originate from somewhere deep within us, our souls, perhaps.

I’ve come to think that it’s the ultimately the spiritual essence of Lynch’s films that make them truly unique, and him a worthy recipient of an eponymous adjective. Lynch’s films exist within their own world, frequently reminiscent of a dream.

Sometimes euphoric, often a nightmare.

He was an avid practitioner and advocate of transcendental meditation, so it’s perhaps not too surprising that when speaking on his creative process, Lynch attributed many of his creative ideas as emerging from his own subconscious through the practices of meditation and daydreaming. He’s often compared ideas to the act of fishing, they aren’t created, they already exist, you’ve just got to have the right bait to catch them.

I wonder if this process is what makes the worlds housed within Lynch’s films unlike any others. He invites us into his own subconscious, by allowing it to bleed out onto the screen.

Despite his allusivity in style and format, what I’ve always found most confounding about David Lynch’s work is its universality.

I feel as though the term ‘fringe artist’ has scarcely been better applied to anyone other than Lynch.

How has a man who’s created some of the boldest, most avant-garde and, at times, downright disturbing art of the last century picked up four Oscar nominations (and an honorary win), a Masterclass and a Disney movie (The Straight Story)?

Surely translating your own subconscious, something we view as idiomatic to each individual person, onto the screen is a guaranteed recipe for alienating your audience?

So why does Lynch’s work, instead of pushing us away, so consistently pull us in?

I could pontificate on the different potential techniques Lynch employed to keep his work just grounded enough to allow us to relate to it. His films being rooted in instantly recognisable symbols of Americana, for example. Or perhaps his deployment of easily digestible genres and conventions, Twin Peaks is a melodramatic murder mystery TV show, Blue Velvet (1986) and Mulholland Drive (2001) are, at their core, noir films and even Wild at Heart (1990) is a textbook road movie.

But Lynch’s work has taught me to dig far deeper than that.

He invoked spiritual depths of us, the existential longings and cravings, the questions that seem intrinsic to the human condition, the wonderings that feel as though they originate from somewhere deep within us, our souls, perhaps.

That, for me at least, is the answer to his universality.

But how did he do it?

As has already been mentioned, it’s by mining his own subconscious and the spiritual within himself, and allowing it to flow into the worlds he created. But, most importantly, he never definitively characterised these things, he simply let them exist, depicted them. His work doesn’t come to us with the answers, it comes to us with questions. David Lynch’s questions: questions about the world. Questions about himself.

The very same questions we all ask ourselves on a daily basis: is evil within us or is it the product of what is around us? How can we allow light to prevail over darkness?

His work allows us to sit, ruminate, and respond to those questions.

I didn’t anticipate how profound of an effect David Lynch’s passing would have on me. It’s undoubtedly the strongest feeling of loss and grief I’ve felt from the passing of someone in the public sphere.

So deep were my feelings that I felt I needed to process it through the writing of this piece.

And despite the myriad of feelings and thoughts that have been swirling around my head since originally reading the news headline, I find myself continually returning to the very first thought I had. It was a quote from American comedian, Theo Von. When mourning the death of fellow comedian, Norm Macdonald, Theo said,

‘It feels like you’re losing a book that nobody has copies of.’

I feel despair that I’ll never be able to see the world through David Lynch’s eyes again. But I find great comfort that he, through his art, has passed his vision onto us, ensuring that we’ll always be able to see the Lynchian in our world.