The Blue Grotto, not some idyllic paradise getaway on an exotic island, was a slightly upscale seafood restaurant on Third Avenue and East 15th Street in Manhattan. It wasn’t attracting younger customers, so that may be why the owner, an impatient, choleric man, wanted to try new approaches to improve his business. He phoned me on someone’s recommendation and asked if my theatre company would perform at his restaurant.

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I tried to explain the difference between the comedy he expected and the Commedia dell’Arte that we performed. But he didn’t understand. His offer was a small fee to cover transportation and expenses, along with full dinners for the company. It wasn’t much of an offer, and it would make dinner theatre look artistic, but in an infrequent democratic moment, I put the proposal to the company. Hunger prevailed over common sense, and the actors outvoted the techs in a landslide.

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I visited the restaurant with my production manager, Robert, a great tech who was indispensable for assessing a new performance space. There was a small area where we could perform, as long as the actors could avoid waiters carrying trays. So assault by lobster bisque had to be avoided. The restaurant manager, a short, pugnacious woman who thought actors ranked lower than busboys on the social scale, showed us a small room that we could use as a dressing room. We arranged to do two 45-minute shows, one at 7:00 p.m. and one at 8:00 p.m., the coming Saturday night.

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The company had already done a touring production of the current show for culturally deprived communities and a workshop production at our theatre at the New Jefferson School, so they needed only two rehearsals to feel comfortable with the restaurant performances. Of course, the actors were all college graduates of theatre programmes, in their twenties and thirties, and had never done dinner theatre. I was far more experienced, but I had never done it, only seen it done. Still, it seemed easy enough to prepare the actors for loud conversations and clattering dishes.

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Normally, when we had a performance, we’d get there at least one hour early to check the space and warm up properly. We got to the restaurant at 6:30, and a minute later, we had our first problem. Kathy, the best stage manager in the world, told me that the designated dressing room was filled with boxes and the manager wouldn’t move them. Kathy organised dressing in the bathroom after a quick cleaning of the floor and collected the actors’ valuables.

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I was already getting the feeling that this wasn’t going to be a happy event, but I made sure to be very positive with the actors, who would be performing regardless of the conditions. When we were ready to start, Kathy asked the manager to introduce us, but she refused, claiming the diners shouldn’t be disturbed. She got very annoyed when I stood up and said:

 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. For your entertainment while you dine, we are pleased to present Sidewalks Theatre in a performance of The Perils of Pantalone.”

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At my nod, Kathy sent out the actors.

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Robert had brought some extra lighting to illuminate the performance area, but the manager had unplugged the lights and refused to turn them on. The actors were very focused and weren’t disturbed by the minimal attention of the diners. Somehow, the waiters clattered the dishes a lot more than they had the other time I was there, and the diners’ conversations seemed a lot louder. Arlecchino, a spry, agile, clever character, made forays to the tables begging for food, claiming that his master starved him. The highlight of the performance was that a number of people fed him. At least half the diners applauded at the end of the show.

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Kathy and the manager almost came to blows when the manager took away two tables and chairs that the actors were to use between shows. I praised the actors for their professionalism under difficult conditions, which they appreciated since I didn’t praise them often. After a fifteen-minute break, we got ready for the second show, and the manager insisted that I not disturb the diners with an announcement. So Kathy made it.

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There were fewer diners, and they kept leaving during the show. By the time it ended, only a few were left, but some of them clapped. A lot of noise was coming from the kitchen, but I didn’t connect it to anything until the kitchen staff came streaming out and left. Kathy was monitoring the actors in the bathroom as they changed out of their costumes, so Robert asked the manager where we should sit for dinner.

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“Oh. Didn’t anyone tell you? The kitchen is closed, and the chef went home.”

 

Kathy and the actors had come out and heard the exchange, and a couple of the men were angry.

 

“We can break the locks,” John threatened.

 

“I will call the police unless you leave quietly,” the manager said.

 

It took a while for Kathy to pacify the actors, but she finally got them outside. I asked the manager for the fee, but she claimed to know nothing about it.

 

“You’ll have to talk to the owner about that.”

 

So. No dinner. No money. Everyone unhappy.

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I offered to buy sandwiches for the company, but only John and Lois joined me, Robert, and Kathy. We went to the Greek diner on Third Avenue and 78th Street, just a few blocks from the school where we’d leave the costumes. The diner was a regular stop for us: cheap and generally non-toxic. There was a big glass cabinet with huge, colourful cakes in green, red, and blue, with all kinds of decorative icing that looked more like Oldenburgs than edibles.

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The counterman, an older, lecherous satyr, adored Lois and flirted with her, unaware of her preference for women. But she kindly flirted back, which thrilled him. John was murmuring about Comrade Molotov visiting the restaurant, but Kathy told him to forget about it.

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Despite the frustrating events at the end of the show, I didn’t feel badly. So we didn’t have money, and we were at the beginning of a long struggle to gain recognition. But I had the best production manager and the best stage manager in the world. How could we help but succeed with people like that?