It starts not with a speech, but with a scent. As Isabella Nefar grinds saffron threads between her fingers, the sharp fragrance drifts through the theatre, pulling the audience in like a memory you can taste. She stirs a pot on stage, the light catching the golden hue of the broth. For a moment, the room feels less like Soho Theatre and more like a family kitchen on a quiet Tehran afternoon.
By the second scene, it is clear this is no simple cooking show. Directed by Chris White, My English Persian Kitchen is both a story of displacement and a ritual of remembrance. The writing by Hannah Khalil, drawn from Atoosa Sepehr’s true story, balances grief and resilience through sensory precision. The clatter of metal spoons, the hum of a kettle, and the soft crackle of onions in oil tell as much about exile as any monologue could.
What works beautifully is how seamlessly Nefar folds the cooking into the storytelling. When she recalls the moment she had to leave home, her hand trembles slightly as she slices herbs. “I packed what I could carry,” she says quietly, and you feel the weight of that line in the pause that follows. Her performance never drifts into sentimentality. Instead, it anchors every emotion in action. You can smell her longing, see her hope simmering on the stove.
The production’s lighting design deserves special mention. Warm amber tones fill the space during scenes of memory, while cooler blues take over when she speaks of loss and loneliness. This shift is subtle but effective, giving the narrative a visual rhythm that matches the play’s emotional flow. The live camera projection, used sparingly, magnifies the intimacy of chopping, tasting, and serving.
If there’s a slight flaw, it’s that the transitions between story and cooking occasionally slow the pace. A few scenes linger longer than they need to, especially near the end, where the performance dips before the final communal tasting. Still, the momentum returns when Nefar begins serving food to the audience, an act that transforms storytelling into shared ritual.
By the final moment, when bowls are passed out and the smell of herbs and saffron fills the room, the play becomes something rare: a conversation between memory and survival. It reminds you that food is not just nourishment but a form of language — one that can speak even when everything else is lost.
Precise, generous, and deeply human, My English Persian Kitchen is a feast of emotion and artistry. Isabella Nefar’s performance holds you close and never lets you drift away.
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