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in the night kitchen
Sunday, 18 October 2009 09:21 amI don't go out to Kalk Bay often enough. Admittedly it's a bit torridly prone to roadworks at the moment, but it's a lovely drive that on Friday evening was through a beautiful dusk, with that sort of luminous quality of bronze light on a silver-gray sea. The occasion was dinner and theatre at the Kalk Bay Theatre, which is currently putting on a production called Rump Steak, which jo&stv saw and loved in Grahamstown. This is a witty, fantastic, hilarious one-man drama which should be seen, without question, by all cooks, fans of high-class dining, lovers of physical theatre, people of any imagination whatsoever, and anyone who hasn't actually had their sense of humour surgically removed.
As an added bonus, the Kalk Bay Theatre is a completely wonderful space, both in vibe and in the actual theatre situation. It's in a converted church; the theatre itself is tiny, seating perhaps 40 people, and the restaurant is above it in a sort of gallery which looks down onto the stage. You wander in and confirm your booking, which you haven't paid for, and the nice lady behind the desk gives you slips of paper which you then put on your choice of seat. Then you go upstairs and are fed good food by cheerful staff while the ticket price and your after-show coffee all go on the bill. Good wine, not too expensive. Interesting food. Generous portion sizes, which is just as well because this isn't a show you want to see on an empty stomach.
Rump Steak is a one-man show which lasts only about an hour, and probably flattens the actor nightly even so. He's a cheerful, likeable Frenchy dude called Gaëtan Schmid, who it transpires is actually Belgian; he has manic energy, enormously quick and witty reactions and an extremely communicative physical presence. He's dressed like a French chef, he stands on a little tiled platform about a metre square, and he uses no props at all. He and a soundtrack between them construct the kitchen at an upscale French restaurant, its seven staff members, and at least three from front-of-house. He doesn't have dialogue, strictly: while he speaks almost continuously, it's almost entirely the rapid-fire names of French dishes, used marvellously evocatively as the hinge-pin indicators of event. (The soundtrack is by James Webb, of Thelema and mad pagan days - James, if you still read this blog occasionally, bloody marvellous job).
Between the incredibly evocative sound effects (chopping, frying, grating, mixing, tossing lobsters into boiling water, a possessed cocktail shaker), intensely clever use of music, a few minor lighting cues and the exertions of the actor, the characters, space and events are embodied for you, tangible and endearing, in thin air. With the precision of the actor's movements in synch with the sound-track, I swear there were moments when I could momentarily see the utensils and food. (Jo went one better: she says the first time she saw the production, she wandered out at the end vaguely thinking "Why is the guy so exhausted and sweating, there are several people in that kitchen doing all the work?" I did something similar when I found myself thinking, hmmm, the actor who plays the pâtissier isn't quite as good, it's a slightly one-dimensional role...) This transcends mime. It's a precise, clever, absorbing piece of fantastic creation which yanks the audience's imagination out, possibly via the nose with foreceps, and puts it mercilessly to work.
It's all the more appealing, particularly to someone of my known proclivities, because the production builds on that intrinsic act of imaginative participation by running with it, not just into the realistic creation of a kitchen scene, but into far freer fantastic space. The chef de cuisine, pâtissier, sauciere, slinky French waitress ("Jacqueline!") and the rest are beautifully-delineated, instantly recognisable individuals, and the mad rush of the orders and client demands are likewise real and concrete (and, I have to say, it's beautifully paced). But so are the odd fantastic bits: the grill chef's misanthropic character, giant butcher knife and dodgy relationship with the live cow he apparently keeps in the freezer; or whatever the hell it is that infests the cocktail shaker, bounces around splashing, shouts tiny, incomprehensible French abuse, and finally drives off in a car. (The actor came and chatted to us for ten minutes while we were having coffee: he says he personally thinks it's a Smurf in the cocktail shaker, but the audience is invited to make up their own minds). Above all I loved this: if you're going to embody imaginative space, why stop at actual reality? damned straight.
If you're in Cape Town, go and see this show - it's on for another week or so. No, honestly, do. Don't take my word for it: there's a preview here. And give my love to the Smurf.
As an added bonus, the Kalk Bay Theatre is a completely wonderful space, both in vibe and in the actual theatre situation. It's in a converted church; the theatre itself is tiny, seating perhaps 40 people, and the restaurant is above it in a sort of gallery which looks down onto the stage. You wander in and confirm your booking, which you haven't paid for, and the nice lady behind the desk gives you slips of paper which you then put on your choice of seat. Then you go upstairs and are fed good food by cheerful staff while the ticket price and your after-show coffee all go on the bill. Good wine, not too expensive. Interesting food. Generous portion sizes, which is just as well because this isn't a show you want to see on an empty stomach.
Rump Steak is a one-man show which lasts only about an hour, and probably flattens the actor nightly even so. He's a cheerful, likeable Frenchy dude called Gaëtan Schmid, who it transpires is actually Belgian; he has manic energy, enormously quick and witty reactions and an extremely communicative physical presence. He's dressed like a French chef, he stands on a little tiled platform about a metre square, and he uses no props at all. He and a soundtrack between them construct the kitchen at an upscale French restaurant, its seven staff members, and at least three from front-of-house. He doesn't have dialogue, strictly: while he speaks almost continuously, it's almost entirely the rapid-fire names of French dishes, used marvellously evocatively as the hinge-pin indicators of event. (The soundtrack is by James Webb, of Thelema and mad pagan days - James, if you still read this blog occasionally, bloody marvellous job).
Between the incredibly evocative sound effects (chopping, frying, grating, mixing, tossing lobsters into boiling water, a possessed cocktail shaker), intensely clever use of music, a few minor lighting cues and the exertions of the actor, the characters, space and events are embodied for you, tangible and endearing, in thin air. With the precision of the actor's movements in synch with the sound-track, I swear there were moments when I could momentarily see the utensils and food. (Jo went one better: she says the first time she saw the production, she wandered out at the end vaguely thinking "Why is the guy so exhausted and sweating, there are several people in that kitchen doing all the work?" I did something similar when I found myself thinking, hmmm, the actor who plays the pâtissier isn't quite as good, it's a slightly one-dimensional role...) This transcends mime. It's a precise, clever, absorbing piece of fantastic creation which yanks the audience's imagination out, possibly via the nose with foreceps, and puts it mercilessly to work.
It's all the more appealing, particularly to someone of my known proclivities, because the production builds on that intrinsic act of imaginative participation by running with it, not just into the realistic creation of a kitchen scene, but into far freer fantastic space. The chef de cuisine, pâtissier, sauciere, slinky French waitress ("Jacqueline!") and the rest are beautifully-delineated, instantly recognisable individuals, and the mad rush of the orders and client demands are likewise real and concrete (and, I have to say, it's beautifully paced). But so are the odd fantastic bits: the grill chef's misanthropic character, giant butcher knife and dodgy relationship with the live cow he apparently keeps in the freezer; or whatever the hell it is that infests the cocktail shaker, bounces around splashing, shouts tiny, incomprehensible French abuse, and finally drives off in a car. (The actor came and chatted to us for ten minutes while we were having coffee: he says he personally thinks it's a Smurf in the cocktail shaker, but the audience is invited to make up their own minds). Above all I loved this: if you're going to embody imaginative space, why stop at actual reality? damned straight.
If you're in Cape Town, go and see this show - it's on for another week or so. No, honestly, do. Don't take my word for it: there's a preview here. And give my love to the Smurf.
