Every second counts—now more than ever: the fourth season of The Bear (Disney+) has premiered, a series that both delights and unnerves the hospitality industry. Small spoiler alert: in this new chapter, the first blow comes in the form of a harsh review that seems to set Carmy on the path to reconciling with himself — and with others.

But the most striking image is the countdown clock the investors install in the kitchen. The restaurant has 1,440 hours left to live; when the digits hit zero, the shutters will close for good — unless a miracle happens. While the characters walk a tightrope on screen, in the real world, thousands of chefs will crack open a beer and collapse onto the couch in the early hours of the morning to see how the hell one of Chicago’s best fictional restaurants gets out of the mess.

Anxiety (of watching the show)

The Bear’s connection to the restaurant world runs deep; Christopher Storer’s series seems tailor-made for those who work in the industry. I haven’t met a single chef who denies its realism — its raw, documentary-like portrayal of the inner workings of a kitchen comes without a hint of gloss. The way it digs into the countless “fires” during service is exactly what draws in — and unsettles — hospitality workers like Israel Ramírez, director of the Madrid restaurant Saddle and a fan of the show. “I can’t watch it after work; it’s so realistic in so many ways that when I see the problems piling up, I feel like jumping in to help,” he says.

Chef and restaurateur Eugeni De Diego (formerly of elBulli) says watching The Bear makes him relive the relentless pressure of the kitchen. “That need to get everything right even as the world collapses around you, that obsessive love for cooking.” At elBulli, the bar was just as high. “There was no room for error: you learned to listen, to repeat, to improve — to live for this and through this,” he says.

The show also brought back memories for Pablo Lagrange, whose path has clear parallels to Carmy’s, the protagonist of The Bear. Lagrange worked in top-tier kitchens like Noma and Mugaritz, but eventually left fine dining to open Choripa, a small, street-level sandwich spot in Barcelona’s Gràcia neighborhood, along with two partners. “There are scenes that took me straight back to moments of intense pressure, anxiety, and controlled chaos — it’s all captured so well that for those of us who’ve worked in high-end kitchens, it can be uncomfortable,” he says. Not because it’s “bad,” but because it’s painfully real.

Culinary realism

Across its first three seasons, The Bear has sought expert advice and immersed itself in the world of fine dining like few other shows. Technically, says Lagrange, it’s flawless. “What impresses me most is the detail in how the team operates: the communication, the awkward silences, the unspoken hierarchies.” Even their movement through the kitchen is spot-on: “How they dodge each other, how they coordinate, how they speak without speaking,” he notes.

For Ricardo Suárez, head chef at Besta (Barcelona), the show captures the nonstop stress of being a chef: “That feeling of being on the edge of collapse — or deep in the shit — all the time. The military-style language and hierarchy are also very real, and essential for a kitchen to run properly.”

The team dynamic — the strange kind of family that forms in the cramped heat of the kitchen — is another aspect that Eugeni De Diego believes the show nails. “I’ve learned this over the course of my career, and The Bear reflects it: you don’t need a perfect team to do something great. What matters is having people who are eager to learn, humble, and committed.” For De Diego, the character of Tina embodies that. “She starts out out of place, almost defensive, and ends up being key.”

As if that weren’t enough, the nods to real-world gastronomy make The Bear feel like it shares an existential plane with its viewers. We see Richie reading Unreasonable Hospitality by Will Guidara — a book that inspires him and plays a prominent role in Season 4. The show also features countless legendary chefs, like Thomas Keller and René Redzepi, to name just two — details that give the series an added layer of authenticity.

Still, Israel Ramírez is drawn to more substantial ingredients than celebrity cameos. He points to the standout episode of Season 2, Forks, in which the hotheaded Richie has a transformative stint at a world-class restaurant. “I really appreciate that the show depicts team members being sent to top restaurants to learn how others work,” he says. “That’s very real — it’s what everyone who wants to be great does.” “In that sense, I like the way the effort, the work, and the sacrifice of the different characters to excel is reflected, and it’s also very close to reality,” he says.

Don’t yell at me, I can’t see you

Sure, The Bear is a little too real in many respects. But for viewers unfamiliar with what really happens in restaurant kitchens, it might paint the industry as a pit of testosterone and toxicity — a constant threat to anyone’s sanity. More shouting and walkouts per minute than an episode of The Real Housewives. Violence, verbal abuse, even firearms. It’s commendable that the series tries to address mental health in such a high-pressure environment, but its shock-therapy approach often goes too far.

For Ramírez, the noise level is excessive. “Arguments between team members can happen, but never punches, screaming, and certainly not guns like in one episode. These kinds of behaviors were more common in the industry 25 years ago, but I haven’t seen anything like that in ages,” he says. In the restaurants where he’s worked — and at Saddle as well — such conduct is strictly prohibited.

Still, these heightened mental and workplace crises are the dramatic fuel behind some of the show’s most powerful scenes. Lagrange admits the intensity can be a bit much. “That level of constant yelling and emotional breakdowns doesn’t happen every day in every top kitchen,” he says. “In the scene where everything falls apart because they start accepting online orders without a filter — I see more fiction than reality. In a real kitchen, that kind of mistake would’ve been shut down much sooner.”

Knives, walk-in refrigerators and ego

If my opinion counts for anything, I’ve yet to step into a serious restaurant where amphetamine-fueled screaming is the norm. It’s hard to picture Ángel León grabbing his sauce chef by the collar in a fit of rage, or the ramen bar cook of the moment firing shots to scare off a hungry crowd — or a staff-on-staff knife attack.

Yes, a knife attack — because in one of the funniest moments of The Bear’s first season, Sidney “accidentally” stabs Richie in the butt during the kitchen’s daily chaos. I guess it’s scenes like that which landed the show in the comedy category at the Emmys. Kitchens come with cuts, burns, and injuries, sure — but the chefs interviewed say they’ve never witnessed a spontaneous stabbing. “If you’ve done your workplace safety training and follow it properly, that shouldn’t happen,” says Ramírez.

It’s also striking that a series as meticulous as The Bear reaches its emotional peak with one of the most hotly debated scenes on social media: when Carmy gets locked in the walk-in fridge and can’t get out for the entire service. It’s a dramatic device meant to underscore his personal crucible at the end of season two — though maybe he should’ve just called a technician to fix that latch.

In any case, it’s far from typical in today’s kitchens. “Modern walk-ins are built so you can open the door from the inside. Like everything in life, a chain of events can happen and everything can fail, but it shouldn’t happen,” says Eugeni de Diego. Suárez agrees: “That said, there are services where you’d rather stay locked in the fridge and wait for hell to blow over,” he jokes.

There is also concern that The Bear turns suffering in the hospitality industry into something cool. The chef with a broken life, a bruised ego, and rage issues is certainly compelling on screen — but increasingly feels like a dramatic stereotype, detached from reality. Case in point: Carmy’s C. Tangana moment in season three, when his obsession drives him to create a different menu every single day in pursuit of a Michelin star. Nearly every chef I spoke to sees that as pure logistical madness.

Ricardo Suárez is one of them. “When you do something different every day, you can’t correct mistakes and bring it to excellence; you’re always dealing with unexpected events.” What’s more, many preparations, such as fermented or cured foods, take days. “It’s chaotic; it’s not viable. You couldn’t use the leftover menu the next day because everything changes,” he says.

Not to mention the stock management nightmare it would create in the freezers, walk-ins, and storage. Only a superhero could pull it off. Just like only a superhero could turn a greasy sandwich shop into a Michelin hopeful overnight. Every second counts — but let’s not get carried away.

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