Typecasts and Tortellini

By A. Haven Thompson

Glow sticks? So 90’s. Scorpion bowls? Too syrupy. Contra dancing? Let’s not even get started. FM has stumbled upon the latest and greatest Saturday night activity: a murder-mystery theatre evening, which comes complete with a matching meal and is admittedly best enjoyed with quite a few cocktails.

“Murder Marinara” is a three-hour whodunit extravaganza performed in the basement of Ristorante Marino in Davis Square. On Saturday night at 7 p.m., we warily make our way past sedate diners and down the stairs to the restaurant’s theater. Instantly we are accosted by a corpulent madam in a red silk dress. “Mama Marinara,” as she calls herself, presses us into her vast bosom before entreating us—or rather screaming at us like an over-the-top Italian matriarch—to follow her son “Riga” to table number two. A man dressed in a white smoking jacket introduces himself as “Don Carbonara” and explains the game to us and the other six guests seated around our table. The room is segregated: along with the other five tables on our side of the room, we are members of the Carbonara family, sworn enemies of the Marinara family on the other side. A murder, we are warned, will soon take place, and it is up to us to solve it by paying attention to the clues hidden throughout the night’s show.”

We munch olives and dig into our slightly wilted salads, struggling to make small talk with the other couples as the tension mounts. Mama Marinara and the rest of the cast circulate the room, energetically chatting with the audience and using eyeliner to draw unibrows, goatees, and eyeglasses on the most unsuspecting spectators. “Fusilli the Enforcer,” Don Carbonara’s bodyguard, serenades us with “Amore” and other North End favorites on his accordion. Then, in the midst of enjoying our cheese ravioli, the lights dim and the star-crossed lovers Toni Marinara and Ditalina Carbonara enter. The couple dances palmer-kiss style until, gasp! Toni mysteriously collapses. We are informed that Toni has kicked the bucket—with some help.

Who could the culprit be? Apparently, it’s our job to figure it out. But the crowd doesn’t seem to be too worried about this responsibility—the table of Marinaras sitting behind us are too busy swilling drinks and singing adult renditions of “Little Bunny Foo-Foo” to agonize over Ditalina’s tears. Our entrees—a choice of salmon, chicken, or eggplant parmesan—arrive, and our table bonds as we try to piece together the clues. All we end up piecing together are the strange color-coded pieces of foam on our table, until one amateur sleuth discovers that these foam slips actually signal to each waiter which entrée the guest pre-ordered. The salmon is a tad overcooked, and the chicken is basically a glorified chicken nugget—a slab of white meat covered in golden fry. Popular consensus concludes that the eggplant parmesan was the hit of the night. The roasted potatoes and vegetables accompanying each dish are well-seasoned and cooked to tender perfection.

The final chapter of the mystery unfolds with a rousing game of audience participation in Italian Famiglia Feud, including categories such as “the top five most important things to an Italian bachelorette” (number one: money; number two: big hair).

Then we are left to solve the mystery over our tiramisu. Be forewarned: the killer is (not surprisingly) not who you think.

Part Romeo and Juliet, part Sopranos on crack, part Law and Order—Mystery Marinara mixes up an experience unlike any other. If you’re willing to spend fifty bucks for a surreal and hilarious experience, go for it—if you’re in the mood for Italian cuisine, however, good ol’ Sbarro’s wins out.