‘Between a Wok and a Hot Pot’ serves nourishing food for the stomach — and the soul

Between a Wok and a Hot Pot

Written by Amanda Lin and directed by Esther Jun. Until Feb. 12 at the Theatre Centre’s BMO Incubator, 1115 Queen St. W. theatrecentre.org or 416-538-0988

The biggest draw of “Between a Wok and a Hot Pot,” the latest production by Toronto’s indie Cahoots Theatre, is most certainly the food.

For Amanda Lin’s debut play, the Theatre Centre’s BMO Incubator has transformed into a cosy Taiwanese eatery, replete with red lanterns hanging from the ceiling, kitsch knick-knacks strewn across the room and bygone-era posters appended to the walls (immersively designed by Echo Zhou).

Much of the audience sits around six wooden tables, where they prepare their own Taiwanese-style hot pot as Lin, playing an alter-ego character named “Mandy,” serves as a guide, preparing her simmering soup onstage, and telling stories about the history of the dish and her family’s connection to it.

But as deliciously satisfying as the food is in “Between a Wok and a Hot Pot” (Toronto theatre producers: more dinner theatre, please!), Lin’s debut play also offers much food for thought as it navigates themes of representation and identity, asking important questions about what it means to be “Asian-Canadian” and how to authentically represent these intersectional identities on the stage.

The set-up, at least initially, is that of an “Asian-Canadian experimental dinner theatre,” as described by Lin early in the 80-minute play. It begins as an interactive cooking show, with Lin behind a wooden counter, a camera capturing all the action from overhead, as she prepares and explains each of the hot pot ingredients, while the dining audience follows along.

The tutorials are thoughtfully interspersed with stories from Lin’s family and childhood. She nimbly recounts the history of the hot pot in Taiwan, along with why many Taiwanese, including her and her family, refer to the dish by its Japanese name, shabu-shabu. (It’s because Lin’s grandparents were raised in Taiwan while it was a Japanese colony and were therefore taught the Japanese language and culture.)

Wearing a blue Chinese blouse, Lin as Mandy demonstrates her personalized recipe for the hot pot dipping sauce, as the audience creates their own, mixing various condiments. (Hot tip: don’t forgo the flavourful shacha sauce, which has a nice spicy kick.)

The proceedings, up until this point, are mostly lighthearted and rather humorous, with director Esther Jun’s dynamic staging making full use of the immersive setup. Lin exudes a warmly familial presence as she weaves around the space, checking in on diners throughout.

She’s accompanied by Emily Jung’s brilliantly cheeky designs — mostly of cartoon woks and animated food providing a running background commentary — projected on three television screens around the space.

Then, there’s Olivia Wheeler’s mockingly hilarious sound design with a mind of its own. In one moment of sly comedy, after Lin tells audience members to not be shy and raise their hands if they need metal cutlery instead of chopsticks, a voice comes from the speaker system and whispers, “Shame, shame, shame,” to guffaw-worthy effect.

“Between a Wok and a Hot Pot,” however, is not all foodie fun and games. Lin’s script, which she began writing as a student at Queen’s University more than four years ago, is smarter than it first appears, transforming into a subversive critique of the “identity play” genre it initially sets itself up to be.

The dinner theatre show, Mandy explains, is funded by food company Kikkoman, the fictional Canada Council for Greater Diversity in the Arts and the (also fictional) Dumplings & Diversity initiative. Throughout, the suffocating presence of these funders is a recurring theme in Lin’s play, raising important questions about how personal stories are told in the theatre — particularly in indie theatre, where many creators rely largely on external grants and funders.

Are theatremakers truly producing the stories they want to tell? Or are they producing the stories audiences and funders want them to tell?

When Mandy’s planned show goes awry, she’s forced to confront whom this show is for and why she felt compelled to put her identity on the stage — an identity, it should be noted, she continues to grapple with throughout the play, as someone with Taiwanese heritage who was born in Canada but straddles both cultures.

Lin offers much to chew on, though I wished those themes presented late in the show were integrated more seamlessly and less obviously. Kenzie Tsang’s character of the “Production Assistant,” for example, who steps in when things fall off the rails, comes off too much as a foil to Lin’s character, inserted so there can be a scene about Asian-Canadian representation onstage and what it means to be authentically represented. Despite the qualms — which I hope Lin can address in future iterations of this unique and promising play — the show is still an enjoyable, hilarious and thought-provoking communal experience.

On a practical note, the production features two types of seating: show-only and food-inclusive (with vegetarian and meat options). Although food-inclusive tickets require attendees to arrive 30 minutes early to complete a COVID-19 test, the food is well worth it and an integral part of the experience.

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