Growing up in France, I was taught that chefs were artists. They were to be respected. They were mysterious, remote figures, creating magic in the secrecy of their kitchens. A chef was a product of our culture. A chef was, usually, a man, at least middle-aged. A chef had Michelin stars. He likely had a belly (all those incredible dishes aren’t gonna taste themselves) and wore a tall, funny hat. A chef was Paul Bocuse. He was Alain Ducasse. He was Joël Robuchon. A chef was to be respected and feared, perhaps in equal measures.
What a chef was not: an object of desire. In 1990s France, it did not occur to us to lust after chefs. Certainly not with anything resembling the fervor earned by Carmen Berzatto, the oh-so-broken, oh-so-hot (and, crucially, oh-so-fictional) chef portrayed by Jeremy Allen White in The Bear, the surprise runaway success of the summer.
