A woman’s right to food

“Why don’t you just come to mine?” an empathetic friend responded when I invited her over for supper the other day. As she’s discovered over the years, I cannot talk to people when I’m cooking. If I do indulge in conversation, I rapidly lose interest in whatever ingredients are in the pan and the disaster in question is served burned, late or incomplete. It’s a practice that’s become so anticipated in my social circle that her reply wasn’t unsurprising – or even rude.

I was reminded of my culinary shortcomings when watching My English Persian Kitchen at Soho Theatre. Written by Hannah Khalil and based on the true story and recipe book of Atoosa Sepehr, the bold, poignant and heart-wrenching 90-minute production sees Isabella Nefar perform a monologue in English and Farsi, all while cooking a pot of ash-e-reshteh (a traditional Persian noodle soup) from scratch.

In 2007, Sepehr fled her home in Tehran to escape her violent and abusive husband. Now in London, her turbulent story is brought to life in My English Persian Kitchen through cooking, every ingredient and recipe step acting as an opportunity to slowly unravel her trauma to the audience.

Turmeric causes her to recall the faded yellow leather-bound copy of Wuthering Heights, unusually found on their family bookshelf in Tehran (“You see, it’s about obsession”). Opening the fridge reminds her of the claustrophobia she felt under her husband’s thumb. Chopping the onions allow her to explain that she’s tried every method to not to cry, but sometimes you have to let the tears flow.

“85% of Iranian women are well educated. Of course, we don’t cook. We work. We are professionals. As successful as the men.” As an audience, we were told this multiple times by Nefar and a quick Google confirms her statistics. In 2020, 57% of university students were female and 85.5% of women were literate compared to 80.8% of men. Still, Nefar is generous but blunt about the realities of living in Iran.

When the lights came on, it felt like emerging from a fever dream. The narrative had switched from 2007 Tehran to contemporary London, Nefar’s jovial tone spliced with a solemn recounting of Sepehr’s encounter with a customs officer at Tehran airport. At times, Nefar is chanting, lit with a single spotlight.

After her applause, Nefar returned to her steaming pot of soup on the kitchen countertop with one final question: “Who wants to try a bowl?” I stood up, but it was evident that I was late to my feet as a group hustled past me, offering apologies as they went. “Sorry! Sorry!” one of them smiled, “we heard it ran out once.”

At the front of the queue, I’m asked if there’s anything I can’t eat. I shake my head as onions, yoghurt and spices are added to the top of my steaming bowl of ash-e-reshteh.

“How do you do it?” I asked Nefar. She smiled and said it was all about timing. But when I congratulated her on her performance, she modestly shrugged it off. “This is now the real test,” she laughed, gesturing towards the bowl of soup. It was delicious.

As I left Soho Theatre, two women ahead of me were discussing their Iranian families as they walked down the stairs. “See, that’s what I’d love to do once, to surprise my family like that completely,” one said to the other, referring to the preparation of ash-e-reshteh. Her friend laughed and began sharing an anecdote of something her Iranian mother told her last week. They headed off in one direction. I went in the other, towards the tube station, making a mental note to Google the recipe – or perhaps a cooking class.

‘My English Persian Kitchen’ is at the Soho Theatre, London until October 5