Hungry (NHB Modern Plays) E-Book

Chris Bush

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

"I'd watch you eat. I'd eat you up. You're not like them, are you? You're real." Lori is a professional chef. Bex waits tables to make ends meet. One night together in a walk-in fridge and the rest is history. Lori has big plans, but Bex is struggling. If we are what we eat, then Bex is in real trouble. It's not her fault though – the system is rigged. No-one on minimum wage and zero hours has the headspace to make their own yoghurt. Chris Bush's Hungry is a play about food, love, class and grief in a world where there's little left to savour. It was premiered by Paines Plough on a UK tour in July 2021.

Leseprobe

Chris Bush

HUNGRY

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production Details

Dedication

Foreword by Chris Bush

Hungry

Notes on the Food

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Hungry was first presented as a co-production between Paines Plough and Belgrade Theatre Coventry, in the Roundabout at Belgrade Theatre Coventry, on 30 July 2021, before touring. The cast and creative team was as follows:

LORI

Eleanor Sutton

BEX

Leah St Luce

Director

Katie Posner

Designer

Lydia Denno

Lighting Designer

Richard Howell

Sound Designer

Kieran Lucas

Movement Director

Kloe Dean

Assistant Director

Kaleya Baxe

Dramaturg

Sarah Dickenson

Casting Director

Jacob Sparrow

Costume Supervisor

Rhiannon Hawthorn

Movement Support

Esme Benjamin

Lighting Programmer

Sam Ohlsson

Company Stage Manager

Aime Neeme

Technical Stage Manager

Benjamin Smith, Philip Thackray

Stage Management Support

Ruth Porter

With thanks to

V&A Productions Abbie Morgan

For Roni, my food explorer

Foreword

Chris Bush

Food is my love language. At one point I thought that if I didn’t write for a living, I might want to cook instead. Admittedly that was a stupid idea – I don’t have the temperament for a professional kitchen – but few things make me happier than navigating a hot stove (so long as things are going well). Over the years I’ve constructed extravagant gingerbread houses and prepared multi-course tasting menus, I even made my sister’s wedding cake – a ten-tier topographic map of the Bakewell valley, with the flavours of a Bakewell tart. The construction of said cake did almost give me a nervous breakdown, but it was absolutely worth it. If I’m not able to bake for day one of rehearsals, something has gone seriously wrong. I still have a sticky and battered copy of Nigella Lawson’s How to Be a Domestic Goddess which was gifted to me by the cast of my first university production. I have a fridge full of homemade pickles (sitting alongside the obligatory sourdough starter), a financially irresponsible collection of Le Creuset and an overflowing box of postcards where I transcribe noteworthy recipes plucked from the internet or my imagination.

One of the few things I enjoy more than cooking is eating. If some people eat to live, while others live to eat, I definitely fall into the latter category. When deciding where to travel abroad, food is always top of my list. My tastes are broad, and not always refined. A friend once described me as eating like a dog does – not stopping when I’m full, but continuing until no more food remains, regardless of the quantity. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Like so many people, I’ve often struggled with my weight. I’ve indulged and denied myself in ways that weren’t always healthy. I still find it challenging to reconcile my natural greed and the complicated relationship I have with my body. I want to try everything once, and then go back for seconds. I will never be the one to turn down dessert. My willpower is often non-existent. I don’t want to be the kind of person who counts calories, and yet on occasion I do. I weigh out sad little recommended portions of unrefined carbohydrates and restrict myself to buying meat or fish once a fortnight. I have taken one of my greatest pleasures and placed a series of restrictions upon it, against all my better instincts, because I grudgingly accept that certain pleasures come at a cost. On paper I applaud anyone who espouses ‘eat what you want, when you want’, but maybe I just don’t trust myself enough not to take this to excess. I’m not sure whether this makes me miserable or sensible, or maybe a little bit of both. It’s complicated.

Food is incredibly emotive. Taste and smell are powerful and nostalgic senses, possessing the ability to transport us through space and time in a mouthful. There might be a proper explanation for this that involves brain chemistry, but we don’t need one. There’s a reason why so many great dramas play out around the dinner table, and leading supermarkets run ad campaigns about ‘food love stories’. What tastes better than a meal prepared by someone who adores you? When we cook for our loved ones, we’re offering up a piece of ourselves on a plate. A bit of our culture, perhaps, or our imagination, our aspirations, our taste. The more we make an effort, the more we make ourselves vulnerable. We want to dazzle, to impress, we heap pressure on fancy dinners to save faltering relationships, or beg forgiveness with elaborate apology breakfasts. We say ‘I know this is your favourite’ or ‘I thought you might like this.’ We say ‘I care’ or ‘I remembered.’ We offer up our last Rolo. That’s love.

Hungry is a love story of sorts – a love story told through food – but it isn’t necessarily a healthy one. For all the romanticised notions I have of showing affection through culinary enterprise, I also wanted to explore the deeply toxic nature of our relationship with what we consume. Food isn’t just emotive because we use it to show we care; it’s also used to assign value and pass judgement. In a line cut from an earlier draft: ‘You are what you eat – show me your fridge and I’ll show you what you’re worth.’ It’s a truism that the cheapest and easiest food to prepare often has the least nutritional value. A ‘poor’ diet is rarely just the result of poor choices, but is undeniably affected by class and financial precarity, along with a whole host of other factors. As we’re increasingly encouraged to be responsible and ‘eat better’ – to spend more on organic, small-batch, cruelty-free produce which can never be scaled up to feed the general population – we inch ever closer to a two-tier system where the one per cent can continue to eat what they want with a clear conscience, and the proletariat make do with their nutritionally enriched gruel. (If this sounds like hyperbole, a brief look at the world of ‘food replacement systems’ might convince you otherwise. Not only is the product already here, but it’s being marketed as aspirational.) The recent school-dinners scandal clearly illustrates a world of difference between what those in charge deem good enough for the most vulnerable, and what they’re prepared to eat themselves.