The Show Will Go On, by Iska Lupton
‘Restaurant theatre’, by Iska Lupton.
For three months we were starved of the option to dine out; fed only by fantasies of the restaurants we missed. It’s not so much the food but the experience that we lost. The theatre of the restaurant. Temporarily existing in a choreographed chaos of flavours, characters, sound, light, hot stoves and cool wine.
I missed spinning under a bar counter, knees pressed up against the tiles, downing olives and guzzling wine. I missed stroking thick, pressed linen and peering through polished glass. I missed sitting up close to other diners thinking who are they and what do their dishes say about them? I missed struggling with the weight of a heavy pub-door curtain, sliding into the leather and getting side-smiled by an over-Guinnessed Terry. Even a three-man-deep wait to order pale ales and chips seemed inviting.
Restaurants are volatile spaces, even the most efficient and exalted. From pub to bistrot to greasy spoon to tasting menu, it’s a live, sensorial show. There’s no fourth wall; it is irresistibly immersive. Customers are unpredictable and staff are flexible. They all have their exits and their entrances. Restaurants rely on humans reserving, ordering, behaving, cooking, serving. Every day is organic and unscripted. Fresh produce, fresh performances. Nerves, cast politics, criticism and congratulation. Stage left and stage right, front and back of house. An improvised dance around the diner. Without this time apart I might never have pondered the perfection of it all. Monday to Sunday, breakfast to nightcap, every show is different, nuanced, teetering on the edge of disaster yet somehow a triumph.
When a restaurant opens for showtime, everything has to be ready. The chain of responsibility is complex. The person writing the menu relies on the pasta chef making the linguine. If no one ordered the fennel or the fishmonger never arrived with the sardines then the pasta has no substance, no personality. The diner relies on the sommelier for wine at the right temperature and the order getting through to the kitchen, where Chef conducts his ensemble.
The type of kitchen changes the style of the show. Open versus clandestine. Exposed kitchens have a certain magic. More context, more vulnerability. Exposed skills and an open hob policy. Eating at the bar is like sitting in the box. Closer to the action, a haughty voyeur, victim to the flying spit, physically higher and closer to the drama. This kind of vulnerable performance feels far more modern. Fifty years ago you certainly wouldn’t expect to see into the kitchen, into the wings, into the dark of the green room, the depths of the actors’ insecurities.
There is set, lighting, sound, props, costumes. If someone’s costume isn’t right — a wine-stained shirt, Jack forgot his work shoes — the vibe is slashed. The magic is broken. If the lighting isn’t right, the couple in the corner might not fall in love over their cold cuts. Imagine if the oboe never made it into the orchestra pit! The show could not go on. Just like Las Ketchup could make or break your grilled pulpo. Forget technical rehearsals and dress rehearsals, it’s just raw commitment.
At home we can luxuriate in the slow, mindful preparation of a single dish. In the restaurant it’s the opposite. The mad journey to mise-en-place. A complex web of processes and ingredients in a single chef’s brain. Blades, fire and high degrees. Then, within the time-pressured intensity, plates are curated with such precision and delicacy. Strong, scarred fingers placing micro herbs.
Just like a live play, a meal will never exist again, it’s transient. A ‘good audience’ has the power to change an evening’s energy. Hundreds of plates – each an artwork in itself – are served and glasses poured. And at the end of the day it is done. The stage is swept and the stainless-steel shines. Any late deliveries and fluffed lines are forgotten, because tomorrow it’ll happen all over again.
There are adrenaline junkie tendencies in chefs and in actors. The adrenaline when you leave a kitchen, late after a successful night, is the same feeling as leaving the theatre after performing. You can’t sleep straight away. You want to drink or dance to try and alleviate some energy. That’s a crazy thing to go through on a daily basis. While the run of a theatre show might be a few months of high energy and full abandon, for a chef, it’s life. Unrelenting creativity, passion and dedication.
When F.T. Marinetti – philosopher, poet and founder of the futurist movement – published The Futurist Cookbook in 1932, he wrote ‘it is not by chance this work is published during a world economic crisis, which has clearly inspired a dangerous depressing panic, though its future direction remains unclear. We propose as an antidote to this panic a Futurist way of cooking, that is: optimism at the table.’
His suggestions for Futurist cooking were extreme. But the idea of food experience as a promise of optimism and the root of sensory pleasures is relevant and inspiring in the face of what we just experienced.
So as the curtain rises and we are granted the absolute honour of properly eating out once more, let’s really soak it in and salute every cog in the restaurant chain for his tenacity.
Iska Lupton is a creative director and the co-author of Grand Dishes, which celebrates the stories and recipes of the world’s grandmothers.