Blackout … Music … Spotlight … Action! Bhekti … Malai kofta … Spaghetti … Aludam Kashmiri? ls this some kind of time and space warp where drama’s got jumbled up with dinner, or a synesthetic sensation where art mingles with aroma? Is this the ultimate Nineties antacid trip? Those in the know, know the answer. Supper theatre has come to town. Healthy competition is good for the consumer’s health so, in the ongoing one-upmanship between the Oberoi Grand and the Taj Bengal (the former inaugurated jazz concerts in their ballroom a few months ago), the latter‘s decided to steal a māchh by offering patrons a regular stage production followed by a mouth-watering meal.
The concept’s not new, of course. The Roman emperor Heliogabalus and his predecessors used to pop grapes and other assorted delicacies as they viewed depraved entertainments voyeuristically. Indian maharajas in their durbars frequently ate while being serenaded by sultry sirens. We, as couch potatoes, chomp potato chips when we watch horror movies on our videos. It has not yet been conclusively proved that gastronomic input stimulates the grey matter as it is being ingested, but supper theatre certainly refines the human urge to eat and appreciate simultaneously, and is a particularly sophisticated Western social institution of the twentieth century. Europe and America boast of countless supper theatres, alternatively known as dinner theatres.
The date was June 20 when Taj Bengal hosted the first such event in Calcutta: the Bombay production of Love Letters directed by Rahul da Cunha. The dining tables in the chandelier-lit Crystal Room stayed in place, but the chairs at the tables were oriented toward one side of the hall, where a temporary stage had been erected, complemented by Sam Kerawalla’s excellent precision lighting. The privileged audience sipped drinks and crunched nuts while the play unfolded; at the end, after the customary applause, they turned round to face a splendid buffet repast awaiting them on the other side. Plates filled with their choice, they returned to their tables to discuss the show, as the stars circulated and themselves sat down to dinner.
The Taj wants to sell this idea as a one-stop evening out. Normal socializing may involve a play at a theatre followed by dinner at a restaurant. Here, the time-consuming and mildly bothersome drive in between does not exist; the agonizing wait after an order is done away with, as the food is piping hot and ready as soon as the play ends; the hassle of paying the bill and tips disappears because you buy an all-inclusive ticket in advance for the whole evening. The price tag may sound high (Rs 450 a head) but, considering the advantages, the upmarket clientele the Taj caters to might well appreciate this package deal. It would have been lower, says Sales Manager Sanjoy Pasricha, but for the government’s crippling 70% entertainment tax.
On the 20th, the menu was definitely worth it—right from Murg Shahjahani down to Mango Gateaux (let alone the dishes mentioned right on top), with separate vegetarian fare as well, the pick of which was the luscious Gujjia Dahiwada. And the artistic menu matched the culinary one: Shernaz Patel and Rajit Kapur have matured in their roles as A. R. Gurney’s romantic couple since they first came to Calcutta with Love Letters, exactly a year ago. It might be too much to hope that the Taj emulates dinner theatres abroad which have a small local company on their payrolls so as to present regular shows, but at least it can host a few one-off productions from time to time—they should make a good draw.
(From The Telegraph, 24 July 1993)