• ARNOLD WESKER The kitchen This play was first presented in 1959 at the Royal Court Theatre with a shortened version. The complete version was in the same place in 1961.
• The kitchen, a ‘realist text’ is written by Arnold Wesker, a ‘naturalistic writer’. These terms have been used for many years now in conjunction with theatre. Their meanings have changed and very easily overlap with each other, just as the above quotes suggest; because of this the task of performing in the form of realism as opposed to.

Until quite recently, an appointment with Sir Arnold Wesker required a trek to Wales, where he lived in splendid rural isolation, with only a few sheep for company. Sir Arnold – personally, I think a simple 'Wesker' suits him better – would potter along the lane to meet you in his wellingtons, take you back to the farmhouse and give you lunch (long ago he was a pastry chef; no one ever came away hungry).

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Then, over lemon sole and a glass of wine, he would complain, sometimes quite loudly, of his unwarranted neglect at the hands of the British theatrical establishment. There would be moments of self-doubt, for sure; alone on such a hill, only a madman could fail to fall victim to occasional dark thoughts. But in the main, he would remind you of his particular talent, and paint himself a thorough-going victim, just as he did in his 1994 autobiography, As Much As I Dare: 'It is the queerest of sensations, this literary leprosy… I sense within the profession a kind of nervous terror of me. What is this plague which I fail to recognise, but obviously marks me like Cain? I search around as one does for stains on a shirt, shit clogged in a shoe, a torn pocket. Does my breath smell? Are my armpits unwashed? I don't remember murdering anyone. I've fulfilled all professional commitments, turned up on time, directed and made stars of actors… What could be my crime?'

But my own encounter with the playwright could not be more different. For one thing, Wesker is shortly to enjoy two big revivals of his work – the first, Chicken Soup with Barley, at the Royal Court; the second, The Kitchen, at the National Theatre – and though loth to admit it ('I'm no longer thrilled by anything, these days') he is feeling just the tiniest bit loved.

For another, the house in Wales is in the process of being sold, and he has retreated to the home of his wife, Dusty, in genteel Hove. Dusty, to whom he has been married for more than half a century, bought the house for herself during a period of estrangement. (Arnold had an affair; she banished him to Wales, sold their London place and, with the proceeds, fulfilled a long-standing dream of living by the sea.) It is, to be frank, quite dinky: designed for one, and filled with all her things. Wesker, who is rather large these days, looks slightly out of place, as if he doesn't quite know where to put himself. He doesn't even have a proper writer's room. 'She's very concerned about it,' he says. 'I've usurped Dusty's study, but it isn't a real writer's room; I'm missing a space that makes me feel like a writer.' He misses Wales terribly, but he had no choice. The old legs are not much good, these days, and he simply couldn't survive there all alone.

Still, never mind. They are a couple again! That must be wonderful. 'Well, how do you define couple?' he asks. Oh no. My cheeks feel hot. Next year, Wesker will be 80; I certainly didn't mean to investigate his sex life. Well, I say, you're married and you, er, love each other, don't you? 'Yes.' He waits. I stumble on. But… I'm guessing that you're not perhaps a couple in the, er, conjugal sense? 'Not really.' In which case – nearly there, now – Dusty must be an exceptionally kind and loyal person and, possibly, a bit of a saint. A low chuckle. 'Yes, she's all that. I had an affair, but we couldn't leave each other, you see. I care very much about her and, in her way, she cares very much about me. It's quite civilised. We've shared a lot of life together, and three children, and though we occasionally get on each other's nerves, we have established a rhythm which is amiable and convenient and sometimes very tender.' And does he now regret his bad behaviour? (There were other affairs, too, one of which led to the birth his fourth child, Elsa.) 'No, only the pain I caused.' Has Dusty ever done the same thing to him? 'I don't know. I know she has been on the verge.' Women really are the superior sex, aren't they? 'Yes, they are, and that's why I like them.'

This conversation takes place, thank God, after lunch – a meal that, as it happens, is cooked and served to us by the admirable Dusty (Wesker gave her the nickname because, when they met, her hair was like 'gold dust'). She does not join us, but she presents the three delicious courses – melon and ham, breaded fish, and cheesecake – with smiling efficiency, occasionally patting Wesker's head on her way back to the kitchen (when she doesn't pat, she rolls her eyes instead). Talking to her – we have a brief woman-to-woman conversation about the cruelty of age – I doubt that she would be so grand as to describe herself as her husband's muse. But she is clearly adept at smoothing his writerly way. Later on, when Wesker and I are talking in the garden, she silently places a note on the table between us. 'Answering machine on,' it says. 'Going to the dentist. Listen for the doorbell.' Wesker looks at her, with an expression that somehow combines gratitude with utter helplessness. She grins, but says nothing. Something in her manner tells me that she is rather enjoying herself.

But back to the work. We discuss the two revivals. I understand entirely why the National is to stage The Kitchen, Wesker's first play: it chimes resonantly with our obsession both with restaurants (it is set in one), and the issues surrounding cheap immigrant labour. But the Court's choice of Chicken Soup with Barley – the first play in the trilogy that also includes Roots and I'm Talking About Jerusalem – is more curious. It's about the emotional collapse of an East End Jewish family from 1936 to 1956, a disintegration that is largely provoked by the loss of its members' political faith. The Kahns are communists, and the play traces their relationship with the party from the high of Cable Street, when working men and women successfully forced Mosley's parading fascists into retreat, to the low of Soviet tanks rolling into Hungary. On the page – I've never seen it staged – it could not be more of a period piece if it tried. The world it conjures has entirely disappeared. The East End is Asian now, not Jewish, and I've never even met a communist. Plus, it's so very talky. (Wesker's friend, Margaret Drabble, once told him that there is never any sex or violence in his plays – and reading this one, you do see what she means.) Hasn't the heat rather gone out of it in the 53 years since it was first staged?

'I don't know, is the answer,' he says, mildly. 'But it was done [in Nottingham] five years ago, and it seemed to make an impact. So I must assume that there is still something in it that touches people. The audience does not need to know in its bones exactly what it was like to be a communist or an anti-communist: the argument between Sarah [the mother, and the only member of the family to retain her faith] and Ronnie [the son, who loses his completely] spells it out. They feel it passionately, and that passion and antagonism will communicate itself. I am hopeful. Dominic [Cooke, the artistic director of the Royal Court] wrote to me the other day, saying how everyone is loving doing it, how he's coming to admire the main thrust of the play more and more. So…'

Of all Wesker's work, it is Chicken Soup with Barley that is the most autobiographical. Sarah and her wastrel husband, Harry, are thinly disguised portraits of Wesker's own parents, Leah and Joseph, who were the children of immigrants from eastern Europe and who worked as tailoring machinists. They brought up Arnold and his sister Della, first in rented rooms in Fashion Street, Spitalfields, and then in a new council flat in Hackney. Both were devout communists. 'My father wasn't much committed to anything [Joseph, like Harry, found it hard to stick at any job for long], but in argument, he was a communist. My mother, though, was deeply concerned about justice and good behaviour and honour, and she felt you had to be a communist to be that, or rather, she felt that those who weren't communists were frequently unpleasant people.' Was Wesker proud of their politics? 'No, I took them for granted, though I enjoyed all the gatherings: the May Day demos, being carried shoulder-high through Hyde Park, all the banners.'

Like the Kahns, the family was poor. 'But I don't remember it in terms of suffering. The only time there wasn't something to eat – this was one of my proudest moments – I sold my stamp collection for three pounds and 10 shillings and we bought fish and chips from Alf's fish shop on Brick Lane. That said, my mother did once have to go to the Jewish Board of Guardians to get help. They made her feel awful, but they did help.' So, in spite of their politics, his parents held fast to their religion? 'No. They were completely atheist. But they were also – this is difficult for gentiles to understand – fiercely Jewish.'

The Wesker parents were not bookish. It was his older sister, Della, and her fiance, Ralph, who gave him his first reading list – Orwell, Ruskin, Morris, and those now all-but-forgotten novelists, Howard Spring and A J Cronin. 'I loved and admired Ralph, and wanted to please him, so when he was conscripted into the RAF during the war, I wrote him these dreadful poems.' At this point, though, Wesker wanted to be an actor, not a writer. 'I joined an amateur dramatics group, for which I wrote a play called And After Today. It was about my spinster aunts. I was exploring the nature of spinsterhood. I must have been about 16, which made me a great authority.' The group never staged this searing early work but, later on, he was able to cannibalise it for Chicken Soup.

Having failed to get into Rada, Wesker embarked on a series of menial jobs: bookseller's assistant, plumber's mate and, at the Bell hotel in Norwich, kitchen porter. 'I left London with a girl. I thought I was in love with her. I thought she was in love with me. She was called Olive. We met in a bookshop, and then we fled to Norfolk, where my sister and Ralph were by then living. But she really wanted to marry a farmer and, in the end, I told her I'd help her meet one. 'We'll go to the local dances,' I said, 'and we'll pretend to be brother and sister.' Sure enough, one took a shine to her, and they married.' Meanwhile, at the Bell, he met Doreen Bicker, aka Dusty, who was working as a waitress.

In 1956, having saved £100 between them, they went to Paris, where Dusty worked as an au pair, and Wesker as a pastry chef. 'We spent eight months living in sin, though it didn't seem a big deal in Paris.' Weren't Dusty's parents anxious? 'I don't think they worried about anything to do with their daughter, who was very wild. That was part of her attraction. She was a country girl, uneducated; she had no idea what being a writer could mean. But anything I did was all right with her. I could talk, and about things she didn't know about. I was supposedly good-looking. I was sexually daring.' He sighs. 'I don't feel as though I'm talking about myself. I feel as though I'm talking about a completely different person.'

In 1957, Wesker was accepted by the London School of Film Technique, now the London Film School. Able to live on his savings from the restaurant, he took up his place; Dusty went to Skegness to work as a waitress. It was a trip to the Royal Court to see the original production of John Osborne's Look Back in Anger that got him thinking about the theatre again: the impression it made on him was so strong that he started work on his own play, The Kitchen, which he entered in an Observer playwrighting competition, launched while Kenneth Tynan was the newspaper's theatre critic.

It did not win but, soon after, he began work on Chicken Soup with Barley and, having completed it in six weeks, he dispatched it to Tony Richardson, who had directed Osborne's play. Richardson passed it to George Devine at the Royal Court and, though less impressed than Richardson, Devine recommended it to the Belgrade Theatre in Coventry. When it was a hit – Tynan called it 'intensely exciting' – Devine promptly transferred it to the Royal Court, and it was on the back of this success that the theatre commissioned his next play, Roots. Suddenly, Wesker was on his way.

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They were heady years. Between 1958 and 1965, Wesker had five hit plays (after Roots, his first play, The Kitchen, was staged; this was followed by the third part of the trilogy, I'm Talking about Jerusalem and, in 1962, by Chips with Everything). He and Dusty were married. He sent his marriage proposal in a telegram to Butlins; when she didn't reply – she was having a wonderful time – he sent a second one that said 'Will you marry me, for Christ's sake?' They began their family immediately, the pram in the hall apparently holding no fear for Arnold. 'Stupid me. I felt my future was secured. I had more plays to write. I thought I'd be earning plenty of royalties.'

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Then, in 1965, it began: the dread falling off. His next two plays were reviewed more coolly; the word 'tedium' was mentioned. For Wesker, there followed both bad decisions (in 1972, he sued the RSC for refusing to stage The Journalists, a play it had commissioned) and bad luck (his 1976 play, Shylock, closed in New York before it had even opened after its star, Zero Mostel, dropped dead). In the years since, his plays – more than 45 so far – have premiered more often abroad than at home, and even his early work is relatively rarely staged. Unlike Harold Pinter, who went to school just around the corner from him, he never made it to writing lucrative screenplays. Why? Did he simply fall out of fashion, or did the plays get worse? Did his reputation – for control-freakery and grumpiness – precede him? Or was his disappearance – as he has sometimes hinted – the result of something rather more sinister?

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'It could be said that I made a wrong move by suing the Royal Shakespeare Company. I have a feeling that it did not do a lot for my career. I'm quite sure I was bad-mouthed. If I had my time over, I would choose a different lawyer – I did the Jewish thing, and went to my cousin the lawyer – but I would still sue.

'It was the second time it had happened to me – the National Theatre had contracted to produce The Old Ones, and then turned it down – and someone has to cry 'stinking fish!' every now and again. You can't treat writers like this. As for my reputation, I've never understood it. I'm the opposite [of cantankerous]. I've too frequently given in to other people's suggestions. I'm good to work with: supportive, quiet in rehearsals; I'm useful and intelligent.'

So why aren't the plays staged more often? He thinks it's complicated – though in the case of Shylock, his reworking of the Merchant of Venice, he is prepared to be specific. 'The resistance to staging it is because of the whole Israeli situation. The theatre doesn't want to see an attractive Jewish lead, especially when it has a history of cosy antisemitism.'

Is there really still a problem with antisemitism in the theatre? Wesker believes that there is. A certain famous theatre director, he says, once told a mutual acquaintance that 'the trouble with Arnold is that he can't be objective about his Jewishness,' something he would never have dared say about a black or an Irish writer.'

But Dominic Cooke, busy with rehearsals for Chicken Soup with Barley, does not buy this analysis. 'I think that what has happened to his career is very striking, but then, it happened to his contemporaries, John Osborne and Edward Bond, too. The theatre does tend to move forward very quickly, tastes change. He was part of a theatre revolution, and there's a saying that nothing tastes so stale as the revolution of the day before yesterday.

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'He did get left behind. A theatre like the Royal Court has different phases. A new artistic director will always want to make a break with the past, to find new writers of their own. I do think that he is very undervalued, but I don't think it's to do, as some people have said, with the Jewishness of his world.' Cooke believes the way that Chicken Soup 'anatomises a loss of political faith' makes it something of a play for our times. 'Reading it again, it tallied with my own experiences. Compared with when I was a student in the 80s, the forces of opposition do feel very broken up.'

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I ask Wesker if, in the lean times, he ever doubted his talent. 'No,' he says. 'I know the worth of the plays, and there has always been something going on, somewhere. That helped. Shylock is being done in Tokyo at this moment, Wild Spring in Mexico, and The Kitchen in Italy, Sweden and Korea.'

Still, he must often have felt an exile in his own country, and looking at him now, settled in the sunshine in Dusty's pocket-sized garden, I worry that his return to the Royal Court is a homecoming left too late. The waiting seems to have extinguished the possibility of excitement. Then again, I would not say that he is glum, exactly. When the phone rings, and he moves to answer it, he makes the joke that is hovering on my lips, too. 'That could be Hollywood!' he calls, over his shoulder. He is grinning broadly. If you didn't know better, you might mistake his limp for a scamper.

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