In Canadian Stage's meaty comedy ‘Clyde's,’ former inmates serve grub after serving their time

For Rafael (Augusto Bitter), jailed for holding up a bank, it’s a Vietnamese bánh mì, with barbecue pork, cilantro, sweet potatoes, a sprinkle of lime and horseradish, all stuffed into a crisp baguette. For Letitia (Jasmine Case), a young mother who served time in prison for robbery: an elevated tuna melt, with red onions, heirloom tomatoes, romaine lettuce, chopped lemongrass and basil, sandwiched between two pieces of toasted black rye.

That these dreams, shall we say, are bite-sized, tells us a lot about these characters and about Lynn Nottage’s 2019 comedy “Clyde’s,” now receiving a flavourful if not entirely satisfying Canadian premiere at the Bluma Appel Theatre. 

Letitia, Rafael and the other former inmates at Clyde’s swap these dream recipes as a way to break up the monotony of their work — prepping standard, diner grub (so many grilled cheese sandwiches) and acceding to customers’ putrid requests (like one who wants ketchup on his tuna salad).   

Their dreams, however, rarely wander beyond these imaginary sandwiches. To think about their futures, about a life beyond this dingy, dilapidated kitchen, is to ask for too much. For some, even to discuss their pasts is a bridge too far. 

So, in “Clyde’s,” redemption comes not in the form of grand, sweeping changes and twists of fate, but rather in the small, everyday wins: turning one of those dream recipes into a reality, receiving a shoutout in the local newspaper. 

By focusing so intently on the quotidian nature of her characters’ lives, Nottage avoids the clichés of a traditional redemption arc. In fact, whether these individuals ever reach salvation is as much a lingering question at the end of the play as it is in the beginning. 

What Nottage achieves through her intimate style of storytelling — as she has done so often in the many other works throughout her oeuvre — is that she humanizes these marginalized characters. And in “Clyde’s,” she asks her audience some difficult questions: What is the value of a life? How do we value the lives of those at the very bottom of our society? 

The play, much like a sandwich enclosed within some too-thick slices of bread, takes its time to settle. But past its carbs and filler, there’s still much meat and substance to it. 

Nottage’s writing, particularly in the play’s middle section, is as sharp as an industrial kitchen knife, with snappy banter transitioning seamlessly into longer, character-building monologues.

Much of the work’s comedy is derived from the jabs and retorts the kitchen staff lob at each other. These insults are more of a defensive reaction, like hardened, callused skin protecting a gash underneath. But digging below the surface, as this play often does, reveals that these scars are still very much fresh. 

Maybe freshest of all is that of Jason (Johnathan Sousa), the kitchen’s latest recruit, recently out of jail for aggravated assault. Covered with tattoos, he has a penchant for getting into trouble with his words. 

Then there’s Sterling Jarvis’s Montrellous, the most senior member of the staff and perhaps the most mysterious. A zen-like figure in the kitchen, serving up as much food as he does wise words of his advice to his younger colleagues, he wants to keep his past — and the pain that accompanies it — well behind him.

If there’s one role, though, that’s less developed than the rest, it’s Clyde herself, the proprietor of this roadside joint, who was once also formerly incarcerated. As the titular character, Sophia Walker plays a caricature of a tyrant. Clad in tight leather pants (the costumes are designed by Arianna Moodie, with mentorship from Ming Wong), she’s like a predator looking to ensnare her next meal. She makes Gordon Ramsay look like the patron saint of kindness. “I don’t do pity,” she says with a sneer early on in the play. 

If the one-dimensional nature of her character is initially frustrating, that’s by design. And it makes sense by the play’s final scene. In its closing moments, “Clyde’s” takes an unexpected turn — sliding from realism into the surreal. I’m hesitant to spoil what this late twist is, but it’s safe to say that it’s a tonal change that reframes everything that comes before, even if it feels unearned and arrives far too abruptly. 

Walker is the highlight of this production. Her Clyde is sassy and fierce, always willing to suck up every bit of oxygen in the room. And when she’s onstage, director Philip Akin’s production absolutely crackles. (Sometimes, it even combusts.) 

The other four actors in this Canadian Stage production feel less settled in their roles, making it difficult to buy into their characters. Sousa effectively conveys Jason’s turbulent personality through his physical performance, but his accent work is far less secure, wandering across the continental U.S. and, to my ear, with a bit of Cockney sprinkled in. Case, as well, seems to switch back and forth between a Canadian and American accent.

Other elements of Akin’s production also distract from the play. Rachel Forbes’ set feels several metres too wide for “Clyde’s,” diffusing some of the work’s intimacy. (I would imagine this show would work more effectively if it were programmed at Canadian Stage’s smaller Berkeley Street Theatre.) It doesn’t help either that Akin’s staging feels oddly static, with actors planted in one place for long stretches of time, making it hard to believe that this is supposed to be a backlogged kitchen pumping out orders. 

But some errant ingredients aside, this production of “Clyde’s” still offers a lot to chew on. And much like a greasy, triple-decker sandwich, Nottage’s deceptive comedy is a story of layers. It’s filling, it’s messy and there’s no easy way into it, so all you can really do is dig right in.