On my sister’s recent visit to London she was eager to delve into English culinary history and visit one of the city's original East End eel and pie shops. I admit that although I had tasted pies at gastropubs over the years and enjoyed them I had never visited one of the original actual eel and pie shops in London’s East End but it had been on my ‘to do’ list for quite some time.
The original eel and pie shops can be traced back to the late 19th century when they emerged on the scene to fill working-class stomachs well and cheaply. Eels were sourced from the Thames (an unappealing thought, even by today’s standards), potatoes – a basic staple – were an inexpensive and filling accompaniment, and pies were made inexpensively with little meat filling and no other main ingredients.
Today very few original East End pie shops remain in London due to the decline in eel stocks and, ostensibly, due to changing consumer tastes.
The first ‘proper’ English pie I’ve ever tasted was a few years ago at The Narrow, the Gordon Ramsay-owned gastropub near the Docklands, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. The pie was full of meat, chunky vegetables, the occasional pearl onion and rich gravy, while the mash was smooth and positively silky on the tongue. I suppose after this experience I had high hopes as to what the eel and pie shops might deliver.
So one fine and unusually warm afternoon in July we traipsed off to M. Manze on Tower Bridge Road for a sampling of this traditional British favourite nosh. Manze’s, recognisable by its dark green canopy, was opened by an Italian immigrant to London in 1902 and, according to its website, the owners use the same recipes today that they used back then. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.
Entering the white and green tiled shop, we took a seat at one of the narrow booths on long wooden benches and turned to study the menu board, which read something like this, with a price beside each:
1 pie, 1 mash
2 pies, 1 mash
2 pies, 2 mash
3 pies, 2 mash
etc.
Clearly there was only one type of pie on offer, although we didn’t know what it would be filled with. Looking at the sturdy, no-nonsense women behind the counter, I decided it was best not to ask.
So we ordered a pie and mash each and two glasses of cold sarsaparilla. Yes, they had sarsaparilla! I had never tasted it before but was feeling rather adventurous. Peering into the paper cup labelled “Coca Cola” filled with dark indecipherable liquid, I couldn’t even liken it to anything in appearance but it tasted surprisingly decent – somewhat fruity and lacking the medicinal tasted I had anticipated.
The food, however, left much to be desired. The woman behind the counter slid a deflated-looking pie onto each plate and piled a heap of mash beside it, scraping the mash from her spoon along the edge of our plates. Then she doused everything with pale green sauce – the “liquor” – until the contents of our plates were virtually swimming in it. It took a considerable balancing act to carry the plate to the table without the liquor spilling over the sides. I admit it didn’t look very appetising but wasn’t ready to judge the food on looks alone.
Cutting into the rather emaciated pie revealed that it was filled with ground beef, although very little of it. There was hardly any gravy and no other filling in the copious pastry aside from air. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t honestly expect Gordon Ramsay when I walked through the door and was open minded to anything they had on offer, but somehow I still felt disappointed by the sight and taste of this rather impoverished pie on my plate. This was your no-frills pie stripped bare, and I suppose I had wanted to be impressed by what I had seen as a cherished East End delicacy.
I had also hoped the liquor (which we correctly guessed was parsley sauce) would add something to the dish but it turned out to have no flavour whatsoever. Reading Manze’s website after our visit, it states that they pride themselves on their liquor, which has a special ingredient that makes it taste so good. I cannot guess what ingredient that might be since the liquor tasted of nothing in particular, not even the parsley it was made from. The only purpose I could imagine for it was to further moisten the pie and make the mash soupier in texture.
In search of something to liven up the taste, I turned to the mystery condiments on the table, both of which were in unmarked, yellowing plastic containers. I chose one bottle and carefully shook some of the contents onto my plate only to discover that it was malt vinegar. I love malt vinegar on fish and chips and positively drench my fish with the stuff, so I hoped it would similarly add a certain zing to the pie. That it did, although I was not quite sure I liked the combination.
Then there were the eels. My sister and I felt we couldn’t come this far without sampling them but seeing the vat of jellied eels we promptly backed down, opting for a side of stewed eels instead. The woman behind the counter fished a portion eels out of the thin sauce and asked if we wanted liquor with the eels, to which my sister replied, “No thanks. We already have liquor on our plates”. Perplexed and humourless, the woman duly handed over the plate of fish.
Back at our table, my sister and I huddled over the dish of eels to inspect them more closely. I had envisioned stewed eels being seasoned and flavourful, but these were merely chopped up segments of eel - skin on, bone in - boiled in some watery-looking substance. Boiling the segments didn’t do them any favours in looks either – the leathery skin had developed a wrinkled, sickly grey hue with white chalky-looking patches while the meat inside swelled into a soft, bulbous mass, puffing out of each side of the eel segment. But my sister was undaunted. She ventured in first, slicing a piece from one segment and chewing it slowly it, as I studied her face for a reaction. When she remained placid, I had no choice but to cut a small piece of fish for myself (carefully avoiding the bones), and to form my own opinion. The eels were bland, lacking any seasoning or flavour aside from their distinctive fishy taste.
While we eventually got through our pies, leaving half the mash still swimming in liquor, we didn’t get far with the eels. Suffice it to say that they really are an acquired taste and I think it would take more than a lifetime for me to acquire a liking for them, given the way they were prepared. Overall I had really wanted to enjoy the food at Manze’s but frankly didn’t. While both my sister and I enjoyed the experience visiting this historic shop, I found the food highly disappointing, particularly given that pies are their speciality. Over the years that I’ve lived in London I’ve learned a lot about British food and have developed a tremendous respect and liking for many traditional British dishes. It would be a shame to the see all of the original eel and pie shops disappear from the East London scene but what may have made a decent meal to some in 1902 certainly doesn’t cut the mustard in 2010.
Obviously there people in this city who would disagree with me since they are the ones I see frequenting the eel and pie shops and keeping the few remaining ones in business. I recognise that these shops still meet a very basic need among some East Enders. They also provide a wonderful step back in history for others, and remind us of London’s colourful East End culinary culture at onset of the 20th century. But tradition is one thing and good food another. And as for me, you’ll find me enjoying my next pie at The Narrow.
S~
