Meet Patty

Humans,

I need to tell you about the night I met the most famous woman in the woods, and then I need to tell you she's coming to dinner.

This goes back further than most of what I've told you — sometime after Paris, though I couldn't tell you how long. I've never been great with years, if we're being honest. Back then I was sleeping outside more nights than not, working my way up through Northern California because somebody told me the mushrooms up there could change your life and I had nothing better to do than find out. I'd gotten a fire going in a stand of redwoods so old they didn't bother making noise when the wind hit them, and I heard something on the far side of the clearing that was too big to be a deer and too quiet to be a person. I looked up and there she was. Seven feet of her, maybe more, just standing at the tree line looking at me the exact same way I was looking at her — like we'd both just found the only other person at the party who also didn't want to be there.

Neither of us said anything for a long time. Turns out we didn't need to. There's a language you pick up when you've spent enough years living rough in the woods, and it's got nothing to do with words. It's how you hold a fire, how you eat, how long you're willing to sit still. She sat down across from me, took a piece of whatever I was charring off a stick without asking, and that was that. I didn't see another soul for two weeks after, and I mean that as the highest compliment I can give a friendship.

Her name's Patty. You've seen fifty-nine seconds of her, grainy, mid-stride, looking back over her shoulder at a creek in 1967. That's the only footage that exists of her in almost sixty years, and I'm one of the very few people who's known where she's been the whole time. I'm not going to tell you that part. Some things are hers to tell, not mine.

What I can tell you is she's coming out of the woods for one night only, and she's coming here.

She's in town because a documentary called Capturing Bigfoot is getting a one-night screening at Coronado Village Theaters on October 21st, and she wants to see for herself what all the hubbub's about. And the night before the screening, she and I are doing something we've never done — putting together a menu that's the two of us finally cooking for each other after sixty years of doing it apart. I'm not giving you the courses. Some of it I foraged myself and some of it Patty brought down out of the mountains herself, and I didn't ask where from. This one's a mystery menu, built off what Patty loves and cooked the way she showed me, decades ago, around a fire that wasn't ours. Some things are better left half-seen, like everything else about her.

This happens one night only — October 20th, which isn't a coincidence. That's National Bigfoot Day. I can't think of a better way to spend one of our greatest holidays than with a bear and a Bigfoot. After that, I've got no idea when you'll see her again. Neither does she.

I've kept her whereabouts a secret for almost sixty years because that's what she asked of me. She only agreed to this one night, and I told her you'd show up for it.

Don't make a liar out of me.

Bear

dad is home

Humans,

It's Osito! For those just tuning in, you heard from the humans of Cow by Bear last month: Dad (aka Chef Bear) spent the early summer on a weathered fishing boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, apprenticing under a fisherman who hadn't spoken a word for 40 years and who harvests the finest mussels on the planet. 

I'm happy to report our situation has changed; Dad is HOME.

He came off that boat with his fur stiff with salt and a long beard. He hugged me, sniffed the kitchen, and said what must have been the first fully coherent sentence he'd formed in weeks: "Is the grill hot?"

I've spent the last month or so helping him experiment with new ideas, findings, and recipes from that journey, and let me tell you — he was not exaggerating. The mussel toast he scribbled about on a fishing boat? He's made it on dry land, on real equipment, and it is even better than the sea-spray-inspired poetry he sent us. The rose water ice cream that "tasted like a memory he hadn't had yet"? I've now had that memory. Twice. Today.

He told me that as he was departing the boat, the fisherman pressed a small jar into his paw. It looked like mussels in olive oil and something green he still can’t fully identify. The fisherman said nothing then returned to his nets. Dad told me, “I've cooked on multiple continents and one distant planet, and no one has ever said more to me with less.”

The other thing he keeps saying is that one of this was meant to live on paper or in his memories. It was meant for the table. So while he's back to prowling the kitchen without pants and muttering about the exact temperature of midnight air, the rest of us are doing the responsible thing and partaking in his Summer Tour Around the Mediterranean menu; tasting what his voyage became. 

Now that he’s home, he's cooking like a bear possessed. You'll want to experience this one. His Mediterranean menu ends on XXX, so get in here before this Levantine-leaning chapter closes forever.

Yours (and Dad says hi),
Osito

P.S. — A postcard turned up at the Cow by Bear headquarters that wasn't Dad's handwriting. Just a bamboo leaf pressed onto paper, with one line: "When you're ready for the East, you know where to find me.” He won't tell me who it's from yet. More soon.

Bear's Mediterranean Logbook

Hi Everyone,

We’ve never done this before, but… this newsletter is coming to you from we, the humans of Bear’s staff.

Usually, these letters come directly to you from Bear, but this month, he is immersed in preparation for our upcoming “Bear’s Summer Tour Around The Mediterranean” dining experiences. Currently, he’s aboard a weathered wooden boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, working alongside a local fisherman who hasn't spoken a word in forty years (but who apparently harvests the most succulent mussels on the planet). 

He doesn’t have access to email, so he has been sending updates and notes scratched on parchment and scraps of paper that he’s made into a bit of a journal. It seems as though he’s working through some of the kinks of his recipes in the small kitchen of the fishing vessel as they sail. 

We’ll share what we can here, but we really must insist that you come to one of our summer dinners to experience for yourself what he’s putting together.

Yours truly,

Team Bear

_______________________

May 6, 10:44 am

Just arrived in Crete. We are about to set sail. This boat is bigger than I expected. The fisherman is stern but seems to know his stuff. We will see.

May 7, 5:34 pm

Tonight he made me a meal of freshly caught mussels over a small charcoal grill on deck. Best I’ve ever had. Taking notes.

May 9, 2:03 pm

The sourdough I’m working on for the Mussel Toast tasted like the spray of the Mediterranean today. Added Chile Tomato to match the sunsets I’m seeing here.

May 11, 8 pm
Ventured on land to Heraklion to brave the markets – tracking down a very specific “7 Spice” I want for my Caulini dish. I’m moving through the stalls at dusk, my fur dusted with turmeric and sumac. I could get used to this life.

May 12, 1:03 pm
Back on board, testing a "Tomato Jam" I saw bubbling in a street stall, and a zhug I was able to taste as it was being pounded in a mortar and pestle. Only the freshest herbs will do. Still not a word from my fisherman companion.

May 13, 4:06 pm
Finally balanced the Rose Water in the ice cream. It tastes like a memory I haven't had yet. Fed some to the fisherman, who nodded his sincere approval. Had a Baklava so light and perfect that it almost made me want to stay here forever. 

May 16, 9:08 am
Spent three days trying to perfect the toom for the Shawarma Filet. Failed repeatedly until I realized the secret isn't the technique, but the temperature of the air at midnight.

May 18, 5 pm
I’m about ready to come home. I’m starting to feel a little crazy without talking to anyone. I could describe the exact crunch of my crispy garbanzos to you in something bordering on poetry, but it's probably best I head for the mainland. Cannot wait to share all I’ve learned!

two ducks, one bear

Humans,

There is a lesser-known story told by the great Aesop that goes a little like this –

A talkative tortoise, unhappy with his slow life, convinces two empathetic (but cautionary) ducks to fly him into a new adventure – by holding a stick between them, these ducks offer to carry the tortoise as he grabs onto it with his mouth. Despite warnings to remain quiet as they fly, the vain tortoise opens his mouth to boast, falls to his death, and demonstrates the danger of foolish vanity.

This is the way the story has been told, but lore throughout Beardom has shared a turn of story that ne’er was told throughout the annals of time. When I heard this from my great- great- Grandbear, sitting at his feet deep in the forest, surrounded by all my cousins, he had a little more to tell. 

During this time, there was an old bear who lived among the rocks and rivers, hunting salmon and enjoying the sun. This bear was a creative bear, a curious bear, a bear who wore shoes. And he longed for adventure. 

One morning, as he was out shining his favorite pair of Italian boots, he squinted up into the sky and saw an odd shape moving toward him in the morning fog. Suddenly, an object was falling, and he heard a faint squeal of delight as a tiny parachute poofed into the air. Moving closer, he observed what could only be… a large tortoise who had just completed his first skydive.

Intrigued, the old bear put on his favorite hiking boots and set out for the dropzone – and was surprised to find two ducks accompanying the happily yapping turtle, who was himself flush with adrenaline. The vibe was good, and the four of them got to talking. 

It was not but ten minutes later that the ducks invited the bear himself on a little flight of his own. He was shocked. “But I’m much bigger and heavier than the tortoise!” he protested. “And my boots add at least three more pounds on top of that!” But the ducks insisted they were seasoned pilots and had once carried a cow rhinoceros to the upper terminal of a mountain lift to quench her curiosity about downhill skiing. 

The bear considered this – he had, in fact, always wanted to visit Level Shoes in The Dubai Mall… could they make it that far? The ducks were not only confident that they could, but they were also - conveniently - already headed that way. And so, the bear was transported on the biggest adventure of his life, flying high between the two brave and generous ducks.

You see, the story was never about the danger of foolish curiosity and vanity; it was about two down-to-earth ducks who wanted to take others along with them on their big adventures. 

Fast forward to today. In the spirit of these winged heroes, we are collaborating with a sister underground pop-up here in San Diego called Two Ducks to create an experience on March 20th that we are calling Duck, Duck, Bear. Think: classic French technique meets Southern California and Mexican flavors. If you're someone who loves to eat and to experience, we want to take you with us on this adventure!

You can find all the details here, along with a menu for the evening. 

Fly On,

Two Ducks and Chef Bear

Two bears, one table

Humans,

For those who’ve followed Cow by Bear from the early days, Chef ’Po Bear needs no introduction. For everyone else—pull up a chair.

Years ago, ‘Po and I first cooked side by side in a kitchen where the heat was high and the stakes even higher. Eventually, ‘Po wanted to serve a table all his own, and Savannah felt right. The South changed ’Po in the best way. He learned to slow down there—to let the heat, the humidity, and the history set the pace. Mornings at the market, afternoons spent tasting and talking, evenings stretched long around the table. The city taught him that hospitality isn’t just how you cook, it’s how you welcome people in.

After helping bring Cow by Bear Savannah to life,’Po did what he’s always done best when the work is finished: he packed light and took off. This time, on a motorcycle.

For the last few years, ’Po has been crisscrossing the country on two wheels, trading highways for back roads, stopping wherever curiosity (or hunger) took him. From roadside produce stands to backyard crawfish boils, from desert fire pits to foggy coastal kitchens, ’Po collected ideas, techniques, and stories—always listening, always tasting. If there was a story behind a dish, he wanted to hear it. If there was a grill already hot, he’d pull up a chair. Somewhere along the way, he mailed me a postcard that just said, “Tried an umami-style Cincinnati chili in a parking lot. Still thinking about it.”

That’s ’Po.

What never changed—no matter how far he rode—was his voice in the kitchen. Humble food, made with care. Dishes that look simple until you realize how much thought went into them. Meals that don’t shout, but stay with you.

So when we started dreaming up the next Cow by Bear dining experience here in San Diego, there was only one person I wanted beside me. I sent the message, half-expecting it to bounce around the country for a while.

He showed up anyway.

Now Chef ’Po Bear is back at the Cow by Bear table, bringing with him everything he’s learned on the road—filtered through his Savannah years. I owe ’Po more than I can put into words. But I can say this: cooking with him again feels like things coming full circle.

We can’t wait for you to join us in San Diego and experience what happens when the road finally leads back to the kitchen… and two bear chefs.

the feast of the seven fishes (and one bear)

Humans, greetings!

I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic lately, and I remembered a tradition we used to do around the holidays when Lil’ Osito was young.

Indulge me for a minute…

I wake before dawn, as I always do on Cow by Bear dinner party days.

The November air in San Diego is crisp for once—almost enough to remind me of the mountain mornings back in Pettorano sul Gizio, that tiny Italian town where humans and bears share the same streets the way old friends share secrets.

I learned a lot during my time in Italy: how to cook with reverence, how to serve with flair, and—most importantly—how to prepare an Italian Futurist-style dinner without a single strand of pasta.

But today isn’t about Futurism.

Today is about tradition.

Today is my Feast of Seven Fishes.

I pad into the kitchen, claws clicking softly on the tile, and the lights glow warm against the copper pots.

Osa is already there, rolling lemon leaves between her paws to release their fragrance.

Lil’ Osito sits on the counter wearing his tiny embroidered apron, kicking his feet and stirring a bowl of aioli with dramatic seriousness.

“Papa,” he declares, “the uni crema is perfect.”

I taste it.

It is, of course, far too salty.

But Lil’ Osito beams at me with that pride only a young bear-chef-in-

pawprints to nowhere

Humans, 

It was the fall of ‘86, and the leaves had barely finished turning when I lumbered into town looking for a Michelin-starred cafe to squelch my rising appetite. My belly rumbled with the endless hunger of hyperphagia—the ancient switch inside an ursine body that shouts: Feast, feast, feast, or you’ll never survive the season.

All the restaurants were closed, but driven by desire, I found a few pumpkins in doorways, all of which I crunched in three big bites (not even bothering to turn them into a baking project). I then enjoyed a batch of caramel apples, left to cool on a windowsill. But what I smelled next made my hungry heart begin to howl: plastic buckets full of grub, sweet-smelling bags torn open, glittering wrappers in tiny human hands, shining like treasure under the streetlights. Candy, and piles of it: chocolate bars, sour worms, peanut butter cups, lollipops.

I did not hesitate. Something primal rose inside me; a sickening craving for confections, goodies, and sweetmeats. I tore through driveways, porches, and streets, feverish, paws sticky with sugar. Children screamed and ran, but I paid them no mind. I was in a frenzy. My hunt for sustenance was louder than their terror.

By midnight, I had eaten one hundred pounds of Halloween candy. My fur was matted with nougat. My claws were purple from grape lollipops. My teeth hurt, my eyes buzzed, and my stomach bulged so wide I could barely roll myself back into the woods.

The next morning, deep inside my den, I wheezed and groaned with pain, clutching my aching belly. But the worst part was the shame. The embarrassment at having scared young children haunted me, and then a realization much, much worse: how had I binged so badly on such cheap, meaningless, poorly-prepared junk? I knew I could never show my face there again. I vowed I would never return.

The town was littered with empty wrappers that night, but no one ever found the bear. Only pawprints remained—leading to the edge of the woods, and then stopping suddenly, as if he had vanished into thin air. And now, every year, when the October moon rises high and the air smells of sugar and smoke, the townsfolk swear they hear it—the rustle of wrappers in the dark, and the low, frenzied growl of an extremely hungry bear.

Friends, I vowed that night – and I reiterate my promise to you: this will never happen again. You have nothing to fear if you come to one of my dinners, and I promise to serve only paw-crafted delicacies of the highest quality. If you don’t trust me, please see my spooky new fall menu below. 

Yours in all transparency,

Bear

The Town That Learned to Live With Bears

Humans,

As we continue our “Summer In Italy” menu, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention a very special Italian village that is close to my heart. You may not have heard of the tiny enclave called Pettorano sul Gizio in the mountains of Italy, but this little town distinguishes itself from others in the region by its magnanimous love for bears. 

In the town square, a life-sized model of a brown bear with its cub is displayed, and paintings of bears adorn the walls. A pub in town sells bear-themed beer. An ursine acquaintance of mine named Barbara tells me that she often stops in for breakfast on the main avenue, her shopping totally undisturbed by humans. I must say, this truly is a shocking experience for a bear who does not yet wear pants.

But this peaceful co-existence between humans and bears did not come easily. The brown bear population in the area thrived after World War II, when the Italian economy boomed and humans moved away into big cities for work. The number of these scarce bears began to grow, but humans forgot how to cohabitate with their bear brethren. 

Tensions hit an all-time high about ten years ago during the reign of a bear named Peppina, a 300 pound “problem bear”, who raised cubs (Jalene and Jonah) in the area for several years. She was infamous for her attacks on people’s bees, livestock, and orchards. (Peppina always resented the nickname “Problematic Peppina.” To be fair, from her perspective she was just browsing the buffet.)

Then there was a young male bear named Fabrizio (RIP) that was shot by a farmer after he
“raided” a chicken coop. (Bear lore tells us that he was just scouting a new location for his next still life painting). Many people supported the man, who claimed he was attacked by Fabby. But Marsican bears simply don’t kill humans; as a culture they are shy and artistic, and they even avoid eye contact, which feels to them to be confrontational. This tragedy between farmer and bear artist brought things to a head in the village – they had to do something to bridge the gap between these two groups at odds. 

So in 2015, Pettorano sul Gizio became the first “bear-smart” community in Italy. Electric fences were erected to protect bees, chickens, and other farm animals from bears scouting locations for their next creative endevour. Gates and bear-proof bins were installed. Manuals on how best to live alongside bears were distributed around the village and neighboring towns. Residents stewarded their ripe fruit in ways that no longer tempt hungry animals. Though some of these actions seem to assume we bears have limited self control, I can overlook this, and I’m proud to say there have been no conflicts between these groups since 2020. Bears and humans can cohabitate peacefully together. Even bears who don’t wear pants.