Saturday, 5 September 2026, London: The National Portrait Gallery, steak, and Six

Written 27 September 2026

I was on my own for breakfast again, so I headed over to Pret A Manger again, a little earlier than yesterday and arrived about 8:45 am, only to find that the day's supply of sandwiches and other savory foods wasn't expected until about 9 am. Still, among the scant stock, I found a small bacon and egg salad baguette that fit the bill.

After breakfast I spent a little time on the computer doing research on our plans for the day (weather, route to the theater, opening hours, etc.), then strolled over to the National Portrait Gallery for their 10:30 am opening. I had time in hand so I strolled through the square. At the left here is one of the magnificent London plane trees (Platanus hybrid) that grace it. They were planted in the mid-19th century when the square was rehabilitated after a period of decline. At the right is Wonderwoman. I finally gave up and Googled her location. She's one building east of the square, facing away from it, bursting out through the wall of a movie theater at second-floor level. Her rope lights up at night.

In the square itself I found Charlie Chaplin (left) and Mr. Bean (right).

At the gallery, I knew David would want to start at the top with the Tudors and work our way down, so I spent an hour working backwards, from the present upwards, so as to minimize overlap. I was especially struck by this photographic portrait (left) of Elton John and his family.

And this one, a painting by Marc Dalessio entitled "Jean-Denis," which took first place in the gallery's 2026 Portrait of the Year competition.

Another entry in the Portrait of the Year competition was Turning Thirteen, a portrait by Frances Bell of her daughter.

And at the right is the only surviving group portrait of Anne, Emily, and Charlotte Bronté, painted by their teenage brother Branwell.

For lunch, he chose The Garrick, an authentic-looking pub next to the Garrick Theater, which turned out to be rather less authentic than it looked and which didn't have any real ales either. But the food was good.

David had the sausages (as opposed to "bangers") and mash with garden (as opposed to mushy) peas, a miniature Yorkshire pudding, and a rich beef gravy. David is not fond of peas in general, and the Yorkshire pudding was pretty tough and dry, but the sausages and potatoes were very good.

I ordered steak and ale pie, with the same peas, sauce, and potatoes—and I actually ate the peas. The pie was probably industrially mass-produced and only baked on the premises, but it was excellent nonetheless. I just wish somebody still made steak and kidney pie, the way my grandmother did. Now, it's always just steak and ale.

The little wooden picks stuck in our food are allergy flags. These days, they always ask if you have any food allergies, and as soon as we mention avocado and buckwheat, they (a) swear there are no avocados on the premises and (b) ask "what's buckwheat?," but the law says they still have to stick an allergy flag on each of our plates. As one server explained it, that flag is our assurance that the chef has been made aware of our allergies and that the whole kitchen was careful in handling our plates.

For dessert, we had apple crumble made, as the menu specified, with Bramly apples, apparently an especially good kind for crumbles. It was tasty enough, but the apples were raw. They were cored, diced, tossed with sugar and spices, topped with crumbles of topping, and (I guess) run under the broiler to crisp the topping, but the apples themselves were barely warmed through. Still good though.

From the Garrick, we went back to the NPG (detouring slightly to stick our heads in at Steak and Company to make dinner reservations), where we started at the top as recommended, with the portraits of the Tudors. At home, we have a slender but wonderful large-format paperback book called Royal Faces, which I bought in the National Gallery bookstore on some long bygone trip and which we actually refer to often, trying to make sense of history and literature. It has a page or two describing the reign of every British monarch and bearing at least one corresponding portrait. Turns out all those portraits are from the NPG, so we encountered "old friends" at every turn.

Here, for example is Richard III, and here, (Bloody) Mary I.

Written 28 September 2026

At the left here is John Bunyan (by Thomas Sadler), author of The Pilgrim's Progress.

At the right, poor Queen Anne, who tried so hard to produce an heir but had to bury 17 children.

About 3 pm, we left the gallery and began the hike to the Vaudeville Theatre on the Strand for our 4 pm matinée of Six, a musical that started life in one of the directors' head as a vision of Henry VIII's six wives as members of a rock group. It was a hoot! The thin "plot" that held the whole thing together was the idea that they each told their stories, in song of course, competing over who had the worst time of it. Then in the end, they decide they shouldn't be in competition, and that, after all, what was Henry remembered for—the six of them, of course!

It differed from all the other shows we saw in that they allowed photography during the finale and curtain call! At the left, you can see all six, though not in order.

At the right, their bow gave me a view of their four "ladies in waiting," female instrumentalists (keyboard, drums, and two guitars) who spent the whole show on stage (there was no intermission) backing them up.

Back at Steak and Company, we ordered the same meal we had two nights ago (although I ordered green peppercorn sauce rather than béarnaise the second time), and it was just as good. Strangely, though, they once again forgot that David had ordered his steak plated rather than brought to be cooked on a hot stone, again throwing the meal timing off while they went back to correct the error. The manager was so apologetic about the same mix-up twice in a row that he took David's main course off the bill. If we ever go back (which is actually pretty likely, as the restaurant is part of a chain all over Britain), I think I'll order mine plated as well. The whole hot-stone thing seemed pointless since the steak was already cooked almost to my taste, and the hot stone radiates uncomfortably throughout the meal. My only worry is that, even if I order "rare," it will be overcooked because they seem to think that what I call rare is what they call raw.