Review: THE HOT WING KING, National Theatre

When food takes centre stage, it is usually as a conduit for humanity. Somewhere in the pseudo religiosity of ritual and the flurry of flavours we summon stories of cultures, families, histories across time and geography.

US playwright Katori Hall’s The Hot Wing King is no different. The night before the local annual hot wing competition, Cordell and the “New Wing Order” – Big Charles, Isom and partner Dwayne gather to prepare their “Spicy Cajun Alfredo with Bourbon Infused Crumbled Bacon” recipe. The marinade is not the only thing brewing.

The scars of Cordell and Dwayne’s emotional lives are about to tear. Their relationship is on the rocks. Cordell’s ex-wife won’t grant him a divorce and he frets that he has betrayed his sons back in St Louis. He is drifting, unemployed in a new city. The hot wing king crown is more than just prize money to him.

It reaches boiling point when Dwyane’s teenage nephew Everett arrives with actual and emotional baggage to unpack, grief over his dead mother - and a criminal father TJ luring him down a similarly dark path. A tender snapshot of black masculinity and sexuality emerges. Just as recipes are passed down through families, as is the duty of fathers to sons.

Hall’s writing is akin to one of those rogue culinary crossovers that makes no sense on paper, but all the sense in the world when you take a bite. Chilli and chocolate. French fries dipped in ice cream. Cordell’s blueberry and blue cheese wing recipe. Fizzy sitcom silliness with a melodramatic kick. Everyone is a few minutes away from either breaking out into song or a fist clenched shouting match.

Director Roy Alexander Weise slickly plays into the sitcom logic. Imagine a Memphis set Seinfeld: characters zing into scenes with a jaunty leitmotif, seemingly bickering over nothing half the time. Olisa Odele’s larger than life Isom is a dynamo of unrefined energy. Canned laughter wouldn’t feel out of place whenever Jason Barnett’s grandpa-like Big Charles cracks a chutzpah stuffed jibe.

Weise underpins the hyperreal moments with something tangibly organic. They bustle around Rajha Shakiry’s naturalistic set, a John Lewis looking kitchen counter, that functions as an actual kitchen - chicken wings are sliced and diced, and the sauce is prepared on stage. A boiling pot exhales steam as herbs and spices are poured in under Cordell’s strict almost scientific instruction. Yes, you can just about smell them.

Hall’s flavours may not always mix and the bombastic jauntiness makes the melodramatic moments feel drawn out by contrast, but so what. This is a summer comfort watch. It’s theatrical mac and cheese. Chicken soup on stage. Or hot wings I suppose.

The Hot Wing King plays at The National Theatre until 14 September

Photo Credit: Helen Murray

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