In ‘Clyde’s,’ ex-cons cook up their salvation

The Denver Center season opener is a powerful look at life after prison

As the audience finds its seats in the Denver Center’s Kilstrom Theatre for a showing of Clyde’s, they’re treated to an unusual kind of set: a full working kitchen complete with grills, ovens, sinks, counters and even a panini maker. As the lights dim, a large “Clyde’s” sign lights up over the whole thing, and a lone cook starts making the simplest of greasy-spoon offerings: a grilled-cheese sandwich.

This is Montrellous (Sekou Laidlow), who we soon learn is evangelical about the art of the sandwich and its place in the center of his universe. He, like everyone else working at Clyde’s, is an ex-con, and Lynn Nottage’s play brings us into what that experience is like in a thoughtful and unusual way through food — both metaphorically and as a sensual and life-affirming gift.

Although it appears to be a plain old grilled-cheese sandwich, Montrellous has made it with a few different types of cheese and some seasoned butter, and he hopes to convince Clyde that offering this type of upgraded fare will elevate the restaurant above its truck-stop status.

Katherine George, Sebastián Arroyo and Quinn M. Johnson in ‘Clydes’ | Photo: Jamie Kraus Photography

Brianna Buckley plays Clyde as a street-smart, inordinately cynical, beer-swilling and unpleasant woman who, though an ex-con herself, delights in heaping disdain on her employees. As Montrellous tries to get her to take just one bite, we quickly learn what he’s up against as she unceremoniously dumps it in the trash.

Montrellous does have at least one disciple in the form of sous chef Rafael (Sebastián Arroyo) — an earnest worker eager to do whatever it takes to gain the trust of Montrellous and, he hopes, the attention of his co-worker and prep cook Letitia (Katherine George). They take turns describing what might be the ultimate sandwich, detailing the meats, cheeses, breads, condiments and toppings that might push it over the top. Even if the combinations are outrageous and possibly inedible, they ooh and aah over the suggestions — affirming in a small way a contribution, a dream, from a person who has little else to offer.

There are some great performances in here, with Laidlow perfectly embodying the presence of a man who’s come to find peace — or at least pretend he has — with guru-like serenity. George is a delight as a woman who got locked up trying to steal medicine for her sick child and who’s now balancing the relationship with her sketchy ex, whom she must entrust with the care of her son. And Arroyo has our hearts as a young man looking to make good while his love for Letitia goes from open secret to a full-on declaration. It’s an emotional bright spot amidst an otherwise grim story the unhappy ending of which, as Clyde would tell us, is already written.

The fifth character is a newly released skinhead-looking dude covering in nasty tattoos named Jason (Quinn M. Johnson). He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Detroit and a swastika on the back of his neck that doesn’t endear him to the Black employees (Montrellous, Letitia and Clyde) or the Latino, Rafael. Johnson has a lot of character arc to cover as he goes from haughty outsider determined to do as little as possible to a member of the sandwich dreamers just as invested as the rest of them. (It helps, too, when he explains how the tats were part of a survival strategy he felt compelled to follow.)

Nottage’s script starts as a slow burn as we’re exposed to the quotidian kitchen activities, the personalities and relationships between the characters and the type of fare they are serving up. We also learn over the course of the play what everyone was in for, with each relating the supreme act of stupidity and/or desperation that landed them in prison.

Clyde (Brianna Buckley) isn’t interested in what Montrellous (Sekou Laidlow) is selling. | Photo: Jamie Kraus Photography

The invisible population

In the U.S., 531 people out of over 100,000 are incarcerated — nearly two million people locked away, most of whom will one day be released. Typically penniless, they will find on the outside a cold and unwelcoming populace that isn’t inclined to offer them a job or help them in any way.

And then there’s Clyde, who hires ex-cons but works hard to tarnish her halo by continuously reminding the employees how indebted they are to her — and how quickly she can throw them out on their ass if they give her trouble. We’re not told how she managed to gain control of this restaurant bearing her name, but she is still beholden to investors she must keep happy. It’s easy to see Clyde as the raging bitch she is on the surface, but the character is more of a totem to that greater society telling the former inmates they are useless, damaged goods who are owed nothing. Who are nothing.

It’s a plumb role for Buckley, who manages to portray Clyde’s nastiness and impenetrability while also giving glimpses into her own pain along the way. And she displays her own vulnerability by showing up in full makeup, hair and nails with obnoxious outfits — all trying to defy the reality of the shithole restaurant she presides over. Nottage wisely uses Clyde’s appearances somewhat sparingly. Often, she’s just flitting by the order window to grab the red plastic baskets of food and fire off an insult or two. But when she enters the kitchen itself, it’s usually to bust up any of the fantasizing going on that’s on her time and with her food.

These scenes are devastatingly funny, with her dispensing lines like telling the dreamers that “That bitch-ass sandwich ain’t gonna change a damn thing.”

The ‘Clyde’s’ set in the Kilstrom Theatre features a fully functioning kitchen | Photo: Jamie Kraus Photography

It’s a big laugh, but it also hits hard as the crew wonders how valid the sandwich gospel is that Montrellous is preaching — or if it’s just a pipe dream, another rug soon to be pulled out from under them. But as even the shattered Jason starts to come around and propose his own heavenly sandwich ideas, Clyde starts to find her browbeating is becoming less and less effective.

Through it all, the bustle of a busy kitchen is always going on, and it’s a fascinating added element to watch the prep, cooking and cleaning taking place alongside all the other action. Director Jamil Jude has it all well in hand, keeping the cooking elements moving at a slower pace than the rest — a time-shift effect that gives the production a feeling of imbalance that mirrors the lives of the characters. The presence of cooking-food aromas adds yet another layer of realism that makes Clyde’s emotional impact even greater.

It’s a strong start for the DCPA Theatre Company’s new season, and it’s easy to see why Clyde’s is one of the most-produced plays in the U.S. right now. It may be billed as a comedy, but at its heart it’s a high-stakes drama with characters representing a significant yet invisible chunk of the population. Telling it through the metaphor of the sandwich is a brilliant stroke that enables Nottage to say what needs to be said without beating us over the head with it.