Restaurants are part of our social shorthand. The precisely laid tables, the carefully curated menus, the attention to service all mask swirling undercurrents that we gobble up from books, reality shows and culinary competitions.

Irascible chefs, exploited staff, simmering attractions, and Damoclesian debt – not to mention the unsettling proximity to sharp knives – might easily make one question the wisdom of ever eating out. But restaurants continue to be wildly popular. It’s where we celebrate, break up, manufacture alibis, propose, pose and occasionally, actually eat.

Figure of 8 holds up all of our bizarre social rituals in this delightful production that opens with the striking sombre notes of a cello, quickly becoming the backdrop to a quirky and sometimes darkly amusing commentary on what strange beings we humans are.

Set in a bustling restaurant, it dishes up a menu of movement and meaning, where the absurdity of contemporary life is presented not as a warning, but as an accepted fact. No one blinks when a guest orders duck à l’orange without the duck. The bathroom has become an influencer’s paradise. A young waitress is casually encouraged to trade on her appearance in pursuit of larger tips and a healthier bill. What should strike us as peculiar, troubling or worthy of scrutiny barely registers. The bizarre has become familiar. In one of the most striking sequences, where a waitress is metaphorically served up on a plate, the clinking of plates starts out as the herald of nourishment but soon dissolves into something more ominous.