If you haven’t watched The Bear yet, let me set the scene: it’s a TV show about a Chicago sandwich shop turning into a fine dining restaurant—but really, it’s about people. Messy, complicated, sometimes infuriating people trying to do something great together without completely falling apart in the process.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s heartbreak and hope shoved into a tiny kitchen where the ticket printer never stops and everyone’s working at the edge of their limits.
And my favorite character? Richie. Not because he’s polished—he’s not. Not because he’s the obvious hero—he’s not that either. But because his journey is the one I recognize most: a guy who starts out loud, defensive, and half-ready to quit, and somehow ends up on a quest to do work that matters, inspire people, and orchestrate those tiny moments that feel big.
Season 2 gives us two of my favorite Richie episodes—“Fishes” and “Forks”—and if you watch closely, you can see an entire life philosophy unfold in the space between them.
“Fishes” stressed me out.
If you’ve seen it, you know. If you haven’t—imagine your loudest, most chaotic holiday dinner then multiply it by seven courses, three too many people in the kitchen, and decades of unresolved family drama simmering alongside the sauce. Everyone’s yelling, no one’s listening, and somewhere in the middle of it all is Richie—half in the fray, half leaning against the wall like he’s just trying to survive until dessert.
It’s claustrophobic, it’s exhausting, and it’s familiar. Not the specific holiday, maybe, but the feeling of being in a room where the noise is so thick you can’t tell if people are bonding or falling apart. And Richie? He’s got the survival stance down. He’s not leading with curiosity here—he’s leading with armor.
Because that’s what “Fishes” tells us about him: all that volume, all that sarcasm, all those opinions? That’s the shield. That’s how you survive an environment where tenderness is a liability.
Cut to “Forks,” and Richie’s in a different kitchen entirely. No shouting. No chaos. Just quiet, intentional movement. People are speaking in normal tones and polishing forks. Which, if you know Richie, is hilarious. At first, you can see him thinking, I’m too good for this. This is beneath me.
But then the chef teaching him explains—this isn’t about the fork. It’s about the person who’s going to sit there. The guest. The one you thought about before they even walked in the door.
Something about that lands. Not immediately. Not in a fireworks kind of way. But slowly, in the way small truths work their way in when you least expect them. Richie starts caring about the forks. And the tables. And the timing of every plate.
By the end of the episode, he’s in a suit (an actual nice suit), moving through the dining room like he owns the place—not with arrogance, but with pride. Still Richie, still himself, but with direction.
By the time Richie’s back from “Forks,” he’s not just polishing forks anymore—he’s running the pre-meal meetings.
If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant, you know pre-meal is usually a quick huddle: here are the specials, here’s your section, let’s go. But Richie? He turns it into a production. He’s part coach, part hype man, part proud cousin. He’s not just telling the team what to do—he’s telling them why it matters.
He shares stories. He pumps them up. He makes sure they understand the point isn’t to get through service—it’s to make guests feel like they’ve been thought of, cared for, and welcomed. He’s basically handing them the same truth that hit him in “Forks”: it’s not about the fork, it’s about the person on the other side of it.
In Season 1, Richie starts reading Unreasonable Hospitality by Will Guidara. (Yes, the real book shows up in the show.) Guidara ran Eleven Madison Park, one of the best restaurants in the world, and built its reputation on the idea that the smallest, most intentional acts of care could turn an ordinary interaction into something unforgettable.
With Richie though, it’s not just at work where you see the change. There’s this quiet, blink-and-you-miss-it shift in the way he relates to his daughter’s stepdad. Early on, there’s tension—resentment, even. That unspoken I’m the real dad undercurrent. He keeps his distance, keeps his pride.
But as Richie grows, you see him start to loosen his grip. To actually respect the man who also cares for his daughter. He lets the walls down enough to realize they’re on the same team, even if they play different positions.
It’s not about winning anymore—it’s about what’s best for her.
And that’s the thing about learning to lead with care: once it clicks, it spills over into everything. You stop seeing people as competition and start seeing them as co-conspirators in making life better for the people who matter most.
I’ve been Richie in “Fishes” before—the one holding on in the middle of chaos, just trying to make it through the day without getting burned. And I’ve been Richie in “Forks,” realizing maybe the smallest details matter more than I thought.
When I read Unreasonable Hospitality after Season 1 of The Bear, I couldn’t stop making connections. It instantly became one of my all-time favorite business reads. Will Guidara’s whole premise is simple: the smallest, most thoughtful touches can turn an ordinary experience into something unforgettable. And it’s not just for fancy restaurants. It’s for anyone who wants to do work that matters. Watching Richie in “Forks” felt like watching Guidara’s philosophy come alive — care first, details matter, people before product. And when Richie comes back to the restaurant and starts running his own pre-meal meetings? That’s straight out of Guidara’s playbook.
I’ve had “forks” moments at work—times when a small act of care changed the tone of the whole day:
- Bringing a coworker a Diet Coke before a brutal meeting because I knew they’d need it.
- Handwriting a thank-you note for someone whose effort could’ve easily gone unnoticed.
- Staying late so a teammate could leave early for their kid’s soccer game.
None of these would win me a trophy. But they built trust. They made people feel seen. And that’s the stuff people remember.
One of my favorite scenes in “Forks” is when Richie is being taught to serve a dish at the exact right temperature, down to the second. My first reaction was, Who has the time for this? But here’s the truth: the person eating that dish will feel the difference.
That’s the tension—excellence can either be an act of care or a weapon. I’ve worked in “Fishes” kitchens before (and I don’t just mean restaurants)—places where perfection was demanded but people were frayed and disposable. That’s not excellence. That’s ego in a chef’s coat.
True excellence is built on care. It’s about showing someone, You matter enough for me to do this well. That’s what Richie finds in “Forks,” and that’s what Guidara talks about in Unreasonable Hospitality.
Here’s the other thing I love: Richie doesn’t become Carmy. He doesn’t suddenly know how to re-engineer a menu or run a brigade. He doesn’t try to be someone he’s not. He just becomes better at being Richie. He finds his lane and owns it with all the swagger, loyalty, and humor he already had—just aimed in the right direction.
That’s a lesson in itself. You don’t have to be the visionary to make a place better. You can be the person who notices what’s missing, who steps in to make something smoother, warmer, more human.
Here’s where it gets personal: you probably have a “forks” moment waiting for you right now. A detail that seems small, maybe even silly, but could make someone else’s day better if you did it with care.
It could be in your office.
It could be in your home.
It could be in the way you send an email or how you greet someone in the morning.
From “Fishes” we learn: you don’t get to choose where you start. Your edges, your armor, your survival skills—they’re part of your story.
From “Forks” we learn: you do get to choose where you go next. You can decide that care will be your legacy.
From Richie’s pre-meal meetings we learn: growth isn’t complete until you pass it on.
From his stepdad shift we learn: real growth changes not just how you work, but how you love.
The truth is, most of us will never polish forks in a Michelin-star kitchen. But we all have moments where we can choose care over autopilot — where we notice someone and let them know they were thought of before they even showed up.
Your “forks” might be a sticky note, a text, a favor, or a conversation. Whatever they are, do them with intention. Because the smallest details, done with care, can change more than someone’s day — they can change the culture around you.
*If you want to catch some of that same unreasonable hospitality spark, Will’s Pre-Meal newsletter is a goldmine of bite-sized inspiration, built to get you thinking differently before you start your own “service,” whatever your work looks like. It perfectly illustrates the ripple effect of care and when you’ve been on the receiving end of it, you can’t help but want to pass it on.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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