Save this article to read it later.
Find this story in your accountsSaved for Latersection.
Thirteen years ago, in a church in Edinburgh, I saw a show that I still think about.
Two nonspeaking office-drone clowns attempted to go about the day at their bleak, dingy corporate workplace.
Come morning, all this would be vines, bracken, and bears.
The show, created by Sobelle and Ford, was calledFlesh and Blood & Fish and Fowl.
Its pre-apocalyptic, which is to say, its about now.
There are bottles of wine, a wall with not-quite-garish red wallpaper, bland jazzy music.
(The knives are facing the wrong way, said my food-service savvy partner.)
But the show is no somber, finger-wagging affair.
Throughout the service, the spring in Sobelles step grows more tense and mechanical.
His smile subtly hardens.
Ill have the arctic char?
ventures one audience member, reading a prompt from her menu.
Its funny and its revolting.
It lasts too long, and its meant to.
From this point on, there is no more language inFOOD.
), the show would quickly shrivel up from sheer lack of surprise.
Instead were carried along by the wondrous unfolding of the plays physical world.
InFOOD, the enchantment of artifice runs through the heavy mantle of reality in little golden threads.
FOODis at BAM through November 18.
