Custard Cream Diplomacy: Keeping the Peace Around the Green Room Table
There is a particular smell to a regional theatre green room at 4.30pm on a two-show day. It is a blend of instant coffee, radiator dust and the faint ghost of someone's microwaved soup. The table is covered in a patchwork of Tupperware, half-empty crisp packets and a fruit bowl that has been politely ignored since Tuesday. And somewhere in the middle of it all sits the biscuit tin. Not a decorative tin. A serious tin. The kind that has survived three tours, two venue moves and one unfortunate incident involving a dropped hobnob.
I have spent enough time in those rooms to know that catering is never just catering. It is logistics, diplomacy and crowd control, all wrapped up in cling film. Get it right and nobody notices. Get it wrong and you will hear about it in the wings, in the dressing room and, eventually, in a very long email from someone who has decided the last custard cream was a personal attack.
The Kettle Is Not a Personality Test
Every venue has its own green room ecosystem. Some have a proper kitchen with a hob that works and a fridge that does not hum like a broken air-conditioning unit. Others offer a kettle, a single plug socket and a sign saying 'Please do not use the microwave during the performance'. You learn to adapt.
The first rule of communal catering is simple: never assume the basics are covered. Tea, coffee, milk and sugar are the load-bearing walls of backstage morale. If the rider says 'tea and coffee for company', do not interpret that as 'someone will definitely remember'. In one venue I know, the coffee supply ran out by the interval of the first preview. By the evening show, the stage manager was making a brew in a teapot borrowed from the props table. It was not ideal, but it was British.
Keep an eye on the milk situation. Semi-skimmed is the safe default. Oat milk is now a genuine necessity rather than a niche request. And the last carton of oat milk should be treated like the last lifeboat on a sinking ship: do not take it unless you are absolutely sure nobody else needs it more.
The Rider Is a Map, Not a Wish List
There is a fine line between a rider that communicates needs and a rider that reads like a fantasy shopping list. The good ones are clear, specific and honest. 'Two litres of semi-skimmed milk' is useful. 'A selection of artisan pastries from a local bakery' is a lovely thought, but it can turn into a wild goose chase for a venue manager who is already trying to fix a broken follow spot.
Dietary needs are not fussiness. They are facts. If someone is coeliac, they cannot 'just pick the croutons off'. If someone is vegan, they should not have to survive on dry bread rolls and hope. The best green rooms I have seen have a simple system: label everything, keep a dedicated shelf or box for allergen-free items, and make sure the person who ordered the catering actually tells the company what is what. A unlabelled tub of hummus is a mystery novel nobody wants to read at 10pm.
The Last Oat Milk Problem
Every company has a moment when the shared supplies run low and the room goes quiet. It is usually around the second week of a tour, when the initial generosity has worn off and the reality of a Tuesday matinee has set in. Someone reaches for the milk. The carton is light. A small sigh travels around the table.
This is where the unspoken rules kick in. Do not finish the milk without saying something. Do not put an empty packet back in the cupboard. Do not leave a teaspoon of coffee in the jar and pretend it is still a jar of coffee. These are small things, but they add up. A company that looks after the shared space is a company that looks after each other.
One of the best habits I have seen is a simple rota. Not a formal one, just a note on the fridge: 'Milk run — Thursday'. Someone volunteers. Someone else adds biscuits. It takes five minutes and it stops the slow resentment that builds when the same two people are always the ones buying the teabags.
Biscuit Tin Rules, Mostly Unwritten
The biscuit tin is a sacred object. It should be passed around, not raided. It should be refilled by whoever empties it, or at least by whoever empties it most dramatically. And it should never, ever be used to store anything that is not a biscuit. I once saw a tin that had been repurposed for hair grips and a spare button. The outrage was palpable.
If you are ordering for a company, buy more than you think you need. A hungry company is a grumpy company. A company with a spare packet of chocolate digestives is a company that can handle a delayed get-out. It is not about luxury. It is about having something to offer when someone has had a long day and missed their dinner because the bus was late.
Leaving It Better Than You Found It
The final rule is the one that gets you rebooked. Clean up. Not just your own mug, but the table. Wipe the surfaces. Put the milk back in the fridge. Take the bin bag out if it is full. The green room is a shared space, and the way a company leaves it says a lot about how they work together.
Catering a company is never going to be glamorous. It is not the bit anyone puts in the programme. But it is the bit that keeps the show on the road. A good biscuit tin, a labelled shelf and a willingness to do a milk run can save a tour. And in 2026, with everyone watching the budget and the clock, that matters more than ever. So pass the custard creams. Politely.
