Sunday, 6 September 2026, London: The Play that Goes Wrong and Balthazar

Written 28 September 2026

Well, drat. This was the morning David was going to get up for breakfast—but no. He had a terrible night (food poisoning, he thinks, or maybe a bug) and got no sleep. He called me to arrange to meet for lunch and went back to bed.

So it was back to Pret A Manger. Deliveries are later on Sundays, so they were completely out of sandwiches, but I scored a hot ham-cheese-and-tomato croissant and a pain aux raisins.

A long strip of space along our side of the square was blocked off with portable woven-wire fencing, with a private security person stationed every 10 feet or so along it. Inside, guys in hard hats were setting up what looked like temporary bleachers. A movie premier is apparently imminent. The Odeon (the one with Batman on top) bills itself as "the house of premiers." Maybe celebrities will be in evidence. I wonder whether it will be a very long red carpet coming in from a side street or whether they'll let the limos drive through the pedestrian zone right up to the door.

About 11:30 am, David said his stomach wasn't ready for lunch, and I was on my own again. We'll confer again later about whether he can make it to the 3 pm matinée and/or our 6:30 pm dinner reservation at Balthazar. Poor guy.

So this was my chance at Chinese food. I walked up to the place that advertised dim sum all day every day. Unfortunately, all their assortments were for a minimum of two people, and I didn't want to tackle the whole array, à la carte, by myself. So I went next door to the buffet place. It was about what you'd expect at that location (tourist country) and for that (low) price, but not bad. The tempura-fried prawns were good, as were the sweet-and-sour sauce, spring rolls, spicy samosas, and (surprisingly) the broccoli. The staff were all Chinese, but none of the customers was, and I was the only one in the place using chopsticks. I had to ask for them.

Our 3 pm matinée of The Play That Goes Wrong was scheduled to end at 5:05 pm, so I had made reservations at Balthazar, a French restaurant in nearby Covent Garden, but the earliest they could take us was 6:30 pm. David decided to skip the play, but he said he'd meet me by taxi at Balthazar's (promising to call me if he decided he couldn't make it).

The play was indeed very funny, reminiscent of Noises Off, but involving a play staged by amateurs rather than seasoned professionals. Much slapstick, bad acting, missing of cues, and failure of props and scenery. The chaos built steadily until the final scene, during which the entire set imploded—all the walls fell inward into a formless heap.

The program alone was hilarious, including, as it did, the program of the play within the play as well as that of the play itself. The humor began outside on the sidewalk, where a huge poster of Tom Cruise was displayed above the small inscription, "Tom Cruise will not appear in this performance."

The play was written, produced, and acted by a group of people who met in college and formed a troupe called Mischief. They have had a number of hits in the West End, mostly named either The [you name it] That Goes Wrong or The Comedy About [whatever]. We have tickets later in the week to The Comedy About Spies. Every week, they choose a charity and collect donations during intermission to benefit it. As they pointed out, it's the perfect way to get rid of your British change, since only bills can be conveniently changed back into dollars. I emptied my change purse into the bucket.

After the play, I had time to kill before dinner, so I strolled around Covent Garden, waiting for David's call. On the way there, I encountered the tall blueish plaque above, which marks the house (no. 8 Russell St.) where Samuel Johnson first met Dr. Boswell.

At the left here is the sunken area in Covent Garden here a string trio was holding forth (just as it was the last time we were here, years ago). At the right is a whimsical decoration in another part of the building.

About 5:40 pm, I presented myself at the restaurant, explained the situation, and was offered a table immediately at which I could wait for David! He called as I was walking to the table saying he was on his way. Through a truly amazing display of ignorance and incompetence (on the part of the hotel staff, not David), he couldn't get a taxi and had to settle for one of those silly, neon-bedecked, music-blaring, overpriced urban bicycle rickshaws. Its operator was also ignorant and incompetent. Davidd had the name of the restaurant and the street address—on Russell St., a prominent thoroughfare ending at Covent Garden and lined with businesses popular with theater-goers—but the operator didn't know it and wanted David to give him directions. David remembered that I had said it was near the theater where we saw The Lion King. That the operator recognized so he dropped David off there, several blocks short of the restaurant. David had to call me for directions from there. Fortunately, he was able to find it relatively easily.

But I digress. We got to have dinner earlier than our reservation, which suited us fine. David, of course, started with the duck liver and cognac parfait, with toasted brioche and house-made pear chutney.

I ordered the hand-picked Devonshire crab with mayo, tomato, and basil. Pretty finely shredded, but tasty.

The we both had the duck confit with Toulouse sausage and cassoulet-style beans. We've had better (in fact, I've made better), but it wasn't bad. The duck was not actual confit, just well and thoroughly roasted, but it all had pretty good flavor.

The Paris-Brest with vanilla ice cream and fudge sauce that we split for dessert was excellent.

On the way out, I got these hasty shots of the cold seafood display. It must have been popular, as they assortment was beginning to look a little picked over by that time of the night.