Menier Chocolate Factory

When we used to visit London, we always tried to go the Donmar Warehouse to see avant-garde theater. Donmar WAS a warehouse at one time and became famous for the strong modern theater and the physical relationship between the audience and the stage. You felt like you were in a temporary seat placed between pillars of a warehouse. The stage was small and very close to everyone. We saw some spectacular plays at Donmar. One play was about an English retired soldier who rented his apartment to an African female refugee. Of course, they ended up in bed together, but that was when he found out that the "charity work" he had done as a volunteer in Africa had resulted in a bloody war between tribes. And, in fact, he found out that he was directly responsible for her killing her own brother and parents. His actions in Africa had caused her to be captured by a rebel army and turned into a killer. She described graphically how she had been forced to hack off the hands of her parents. It was a very powerful piece of theater, condemning so-called do-gooders who are blind to the reality of their actions in the field.
The play at the Donmar had been sold out for months and the only thing to do was come to box office on the day we wanted to go and hope that a couple of tickets were available. The play was Farquhar's THE RECRUITING OFFICER, a play from the 1700s, very old, but very topical at the same time. No way to get seats unless we stood in the rain.
The London Theatre Guide lists all the playhouses in the West End theater district. And there we read about the Menier Chocolate Factory. Huh? A chocolate factory putting on plays? Sounded Donmar-ish.
Here is what the brochure says: "Housed in a converted chocolate factory in London's busy Bankside, the Menier has been a full time producing house since 2004, and comprises a theater, restaurant, bar and rehearsal space. We have won the Peter Brook Empty Space Award AND the Best Theater Foodie Experience Award."
The play would be ABIGAIL'S PARTY by Mike Leigh, one of Britain's most successful playwrights.
It sounded GREAT. I called for dinner reservations, but all the tables were booked.
We decided to have an easy day with another long walk and late lunch at the local Fred's Cafe and then a nap.
It was raining in the afternoon and since the theater was on the other side of the river and seemed far away, we went to the corner of Shaftsbury Ave and hailed a cab. I love London cabs and cabbies. They take a test of all the streets in London and never seem to go the straightest route. They zig-zag in and out of small streets, between narrow buildings, around road blocks and suddenly end up exactly where they should have been in the first place. I guess the idea is that they know all the short cuts to avoid traffic.
The London cabbies remind me of my father, who learned to drive as the driver of a fruit and vegetable truck. He would always say that second gear was unnecessary, "Just rev up fast enough to jam into third gear." And, he hated with a passion, Red Lights. He would go well out of his way to avoid a red light. For example, his apartment was about one mile from his office. It was easy: turn right out of the driveway, turn right at the first traffic light, turn right at the next big traffic light, and turn right at the second light and you were there. But not him. He would turn right out of the driveway, turn right at the first traffic light and THEN turn into the driveway of the Mass Mental Health Hospital, drive around the back of the laundry delivery area, down the alley way to the back street, turn left at the front of the hospital, turn right at the park, drive the back street by the delivery entrance to the Children's Hospital and through the workers' parking lot and end up in front of his office.
By the time we got to the Chocolate Factory, it was pouring rain. We jumped out of the cab just as a girl on a bicycle rode up. She was soaked to the skin and laughing. "I'm late for dinner," she gleefully bleated. The three of us went inside and it was perfect. A lovely atmosphere. Lots of people at wooden tables eating dinners. We went through the restaurant and asked for the box office, which was located up three short stairs near the door to the art gallery. I glanced at the exhibition, which was packed with people drinking wine and pretending to look at the art. This resulted in me not noticing the hand railing on the steps. I whacked the back of my left hand and the skin tore and it began to bleed quite a bit (and it hurt) (and when I looked down all I could think of was that my hands looked exactly like my father's hands when he was in his eighty's and ninety's). At the box office, which was in the bar, I got the tickets AND the girl gave me a "plaster for your bruise." In the USA, I am sure I would have been forced to sign a document that I released the theater from all responsibility to pay for my cut hand. I went to the Gents' to clean the cut and put on the bandage and when I got back, Judy had found a seat on a bench. I decided enough was enough and asked the bartender to make a good strong gin and tonic (Judy had a tonic). We sat down to relax and wait for the show.
A "nice young lady" asked if she could sit next to us. Of course. We began to talk (I talk to everybody, Judy says) and it turned out that she was writing a children's book, so that was interesting to hear her story. It was about her childhood growing up in France.
Finally, into the theater which was a traditional small theater. Maybe seating for 200 people that's all. We had no idea what to expect in the play. I had bought a copy of the script, but hadn't read it yet. Sometimes I like to read the script before I see a play, especially if it is a classical piece.
The program notes say: "ABIGAIL'S PARTY is not a sitcom, nor an extended comic sketch. In form and substance it is an extremely cunning version of a typical comedy. It is more akin to Greek tragedy than to most television comedy." What does THAT mean, I wonder. Is it a laugh or a cry?
The director says, "ABIGAIL'S PARTY was evolved from scratch entirely by rehearsal through improvisation." Judy groaned, "I wish you hadn't read that."
The story is simple: a party at Beverly and Laurence' house, with guests Angela and  Tony and Susan, a single mother with a teenage daughter: Abigail. Susan has been convinced to come to the party, "because the teens don't want a stodgy old mom hanging about while they're having fun." What makes the play so good is that the married couples "hate" each other and Beverly ends up doing a slow, sexy, dance with Tony. Angela is a nurse and doesn't drink, but ends up completely drunk on gin and tonics, "Oh, I'll have just one teeny one more. That can't hurt, can it. I mean we live right across the street." By the end of Act One, Angela is completely drunk.
Meanwhile, Susan's daughter, Abigail, is having the party of her lifetime two houses down the street. The music from the party blasts all over the neighborhood and Susan begins to worry that things are getting out of hand. She wants to go home and check things out, but she is convinced to "let the kids enjoy themselves." By the end of the play, both married couples are at each others throats, and Susan is on the phone screaming for Abigail to "please, please answer the phone."
The level of conversation has increased to shouting level. Everyone is on edge. Beverly is dancing a slow, sexy dance with Tony, which causes friction for their spouse. Beverly is angry and when Laurence decides to start a debate (in a loud, aggressive voice) about ART, this is what happens.
BEVERLY: For Christ's sake, Laurence, give it a rest!
LAURENCE: Give what a rest?
BEVERLY: Nobody is interested.
LAURENCE: Oh, yes, they are!
BEVERLY: Oh, no, they're not!
LAURENCE: D'ya know something, Beverly? You're ignorant.
BEVERLY: Oh, so I'm ignorant, now, am I?
LAURENCE: Now? You always have been!
BEVERLY: It's not a question of ignorance, Laurence, it's a question of taste!
LAURENCE: Taste? And what would you know about taste?
This dialogue is very funny to see. Laurence is red faced and shouting and out of control. Beverly is in a quiet, sarcastic mood that drives Laurence crazy with anger. She parades around the room, in a very provocative, sexy manner that adds to his anger. By the end of the play, Laurence has suffered a fatal heart attack. Nurse Angela has stopped giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation and is having a leg cramp. Her husband Tony is desperately massaging her leg while she screams in pain. Beverly is sobbing hysterically. And, Susan is on the phone, shouting: "Abigail. It's mommy here.....ABIGAIL!"
And the curtain goes down. We are drained again. What a wonderful play and a great cast.
Now it is time to go back to Rupert Street. We ask where the Underground is and follow people three easy blocks down the street to the station. We buy the wrong tickets(day passes instead of single tickets) but jump on the train and get back to Piccadilly Square easily.
Up to the apartment, and a late night snack of "stick" bread bought at the French bakery and cheddar cheese. Bed time.