‘Buy Your Back Brace Now’: The Bear Sidesteps the Grueling Physical Costs of Restaurant Work

TThe opening scene of the hit F/X drama The Bear‘s newest season begins with troubled chef Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto staring at a deep scar on his hand. He vaguely explains the cause to his doctor girlfriend Claire; the now-healed injury doesn’t seem like much to him. Agreeing with what Carmy leaves unsaid, she asks if the wound hurt so much that he couldn’t feel it at the time.

That delayed pain also applies to Carmy’s other wounds: the mental health damage he sustained in an abusive kitchen and a tough upbringing. But now he’s passing on his trauma to his own restaurant staff, pushing them to their breaking points.

The symbolism of Carmy’s scar isn’t limited to his chaotic past. It’s a direct example of the well-being of restaurant and hospitality workers. Because whether you’re a dishwasher, a pastry chef, or a prep cook, one universal truth of the job is its physically demanding nature.

I learned this 11 years ago at my first job out of culinary school. Like many of my fellow students, I was ambitious: carrying a worn-out copy of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, I devoured the Eurocentric standards of the industry and the histories of chefs like Jean-Georges Vongerichten, Jacques Torres, and Daniel Boulud (who a cameo in The Bear this season, including elite chefs). I was hungry as a baby, eager for life in the kitchen.

At a New York City restaurant known for its brunch and celebrities, I met a cook who had suffered an injury that left me gasping for breath. She accidentally dropped a gas canister, used in commercial whipped cream dispensers, into a vat of boiling sugar. It exploded in her face, leaving a deep, deep scar that ran from her forehead to her chin.

The reality of what food service entails hit home when the cook returned to work the day after her injury. I pondered the question that all cooks ponder: Do I have the physical and mental stamina to make something of myself in this industry? While shows like The Bear show us the pressures of working in the back of house, they rarely show how life in the kitchen can ravage a body. Instead, they romanticize the daily physical struggle.

In reality, shifts are fraught with danger and the prospect of pain. Knuckles licked by flames. Slippery floors. Threats to limbs from the giant Hobart blender. Repetitive motion injuries from butchering meat or sectioning overflowing bins of citrus. And hanging over it all could be an aggressive chef who can verbally exterminate or even physically assault staff for an unfortunate mistake.

According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, there were 93,800 nonfatal injuries and illnesses reported in full-service restaurants in 2019. And that number doesn’t even include the experiences of workers who bore their pain in silence.

A month into my first season as a chef, I was exhausted from a gruelling day that began with a 5 a.m. commute and ended after 5 p.m. Fatigue was my constant companion. My feet felt as if they had been pierced by shards of glass. I developed golf-ball-sized cysts that were later diagnosed as polycystic ovary syndrome; the work didn’t cause them, but stress certainly exacerbated them. Despite days of hard physical labor, I was encouraged to skip “family meals”—the free work food provided to employees—in order to finish my prep. If I found a snack to satisfy my hunger, I was ordered to eat it while squatting and out of sight of the guests; the sight of a chef munching is a grave insult.

I was 21 and didn’t know how to handle power in the kitchen or protect my well-being. In culinary school, we were taught to automatically say “Yes, Chef.” But we learned very little about how to work in a kitchen and live a healthy life at the same time.

I remember two candid pieces of advice from the class: “Find a new hobby, because now that your hobby is your career, you need a new creative outlet” and “don’t lock your knees” when standing at your workstation for hours. That was the extent of my “physical education” in culinary school.

Houston chef Dawn Sloan worked in upscale restaurants in California and Spain. After returning to the United States, she founded the popular Soul Taco food truck, which she now wants to transform into a full-fledged restaurant.

When I asked her for tips on staying healthy at work, she said, more than a little seriously, “Get your back brace now.” Still, she feels lucky to be doing something as risky as opening a restaurant, because she once didn’t know if she would ever be able to work in restaurants again after a health crisis.

While operating a flat-top grill in the middle of a shift at a legendary Spanish restaurant with three Michelin stars, she suffered an unexpected and serious health crisis. “I was heating something up to serve on a plate, and all of a sudden I couldn’t see. I thought it was because I was tired. But (the extreme blurriness) didn’t go away.” Her retina was detached from the back of her eye.

She kept working, navigating the service. Only after she had finished eating for about 100 guests did Sloan tell her colleagues what had happened and ask for help. Meanwhile, she was arguing with her colleagues. She told them, “Don’t call an ambulance. You don’t call an ambulance to a three-star restaurant,” ruining the image of calm efficiency. What followed were months of surgeries and hospital visits abroad.

Why are chefs and other staff so willing to work through mental and physical challenges in the kitchen? The main reasons are practical: low pay, lack of insurance, fear of losing their jobs, or accusations that they simply can’t handle it. And as chef Thérèse Nelson told me, “A lot of people who are drawn to the profession by the hyper-stylized aesthetics of television shows are influenced to see the lack of self-care as a badge of honor.”

Her comment made me wonder: How can this change in an industry that essentially expects its employees to use their bodies like athletes do?

I found a little hope when I spoke with Christian Hunter, co-owner and culinary director of Chicago restaurant Atelier, which earned a coveted Michelin star and earned him a nomination for a regional James Beard Foundation award for best chef in 2023. He said, “I’m very ambitious, but not at the expense of my team. I trust them.”

Hunter offers a conscious connection as a counterbalance to the hypermasculine and hierarchical world of professional kitchens, whose organization is modeled on military brigades and often governed by an “eat or be eaten” philosophy.

“You have to ask yourself, do you care about these people,” Hunter said. “I make an effort to spend time with my team and connect outside of work.” He also keeps an eye on how much his team is working in an industry where 60-hour weeks are not uncommon. A well-rested worker is less likely to hurt themselves or make mistakes, and just as a healthy animal makes for better meat, a healthy chef makes for a better meal.

In Los Angeles, food stylist and culinary producer Alyssa Noui saw a need for support for industry workers who were dealing with the stresses of life in and out of the kitchen. Noui, who focuses on the “glamorous” side of food, hosts twice-monthly check-in events for the industry with Southern Smoke Foundationan initiative to provide food and beverage workers with free mental health care and access to an emergency fund.

“The check-in events are a soft place to land in some of the discomforts the industry imposes on us, while also celebrating the passion that keeps us coming back,” she said.

Nelson, founder of the Black culinary history project, understands both sides. She said, “The kitchen is one of the few places where I feel whole and can test my own excellence.” But it may also be where she developed chronic asthma and “a smoker’s lungs,” despite never having smoked a day in her life. The chef and author spent years working the grill station in hotel restaurants; she chose those restaurants deliberately because she found that large hospitality establishments typically have human resources departments, better hours, and insurance that many independent, elite, or small restaurants lack.

Nelson said the health of restaurant workers should be the concern of everyone involved in the operation. And every operation should have some sort of wellness plan that goes beyond first aid or emergency policies. Business owners who open and own these establishments “need to consider the health of their staff and the financial investment of health plans.” Creating more humane workplaces costs money, she added, and those same restaurant owners need to factor such costs into their profit models and be clear “with customers why a branzino might cost $45” to support the health of their staff.

Medical benefits are just one part of a wellness plan. It can also mean creating a workplace culture where people feel free to take breaks without embarrassment.

Seattle restaurateur and James Beard-nominated emerging chef Kristi Brown holds regular self-care check-ins with her staff at her signature eatery, Communion. Meditation is included in management meetings and a Sunday pre-shift meeting, too, because she believes mindfulness helps with “mental and spiritual clarity.”

Brown says “my goal is to give people as many tools as possible to take care of themselves,” and plans to support the breathing exercises with enhanced benefits. Her goal is to pay 100% of her employees’ insurance premiums within the next two years — up from the 50% she now covers for employees who work at least 28 hours a week.