London's East End Eel & Pie Shops

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 19^th 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 20^th 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~

The Sandwich

The humble sandwich has certainly come a long way since it was discovered and named by nobleman John Montagu – aka the 4^th Earl of Sandwich – in 1762. You’ve probably all heard the story by now, that one evening the Earl was allegedly gambling but didn’t want to pause for dinner, so he asked a waiter to bring him slices of roast beef (what else?) between two slices of bread. That way he could conveniently continue to gamble and eat at the same time, while not getting his fingers greasy.

Necessity truly is the mother of invention.

And what an invention it was! Over the centuries the humble sandwich grown into a multi-billion-pound industry, has revolutionised British eating habits and is now even creeping into the French habits as well with gourmet sandwich shops sprouting up around Paris. The British Sandwich Association estimates that each year over 11.5 billion sandwiches are consumed in Britain and even celebrates this convenient meal with Sandwich Week, held annually in the month of May. It’s fair to say that there is a certain degree of national pride in the British sandwich, in all its numerous incarnations.

In London, sandwich shops seem ubiquitous with independent shops and rapidly expanding chains such as Pret a Manger (yes, they’ve dispensed with the French accents) and EAT on virtually every high street. Grocery stores and corner shops are also filled with endless varieties of sandwiches, rows upon rows lining the shelves in their tidy triangular plastic or cardboard packages with a little rectangular cellophane window on the front so you can at least view the contents before you buy.

I’ve got to say that there’s little appetising about viewing your next meal through a patch of cellophane, snugly wedged into a small triangular box and initially I vowed never to try the pre-packed sandwich. Yet over time my initial disgust turned into fascination as I watched countless Londoners queue at lunchtime to get their standard sandwich and bag of crisps, and stole furtive, sceptical glances at them while they devoured these things with obvious delight. It was then that I began to question my initial prejudice and think perhaps I was missing out on something good. And besides, how could I criticise it unless I had actually tried it? So I decided it was time to sample the triangular pre-packed sandwich and see what all the fuss was about.

My initial experiences were no less than grim. After having watched a woman on a train polish off her prawn mayo sandwich with unbridled enthusiasm, I decided that would be my first choice. The verdict? Sloppy and tasteless and swimming in mayo. I think I made it to the third bite before I could go no further and had to discard it for something else.

Months later when the putrid taste of prawn mayo had almost fully receded from my memory I decided to try a second one, although I cannot recall what motivated me to select Pret’s Famous All Day Breakfast. I think I reasoned that I liked each of the ingredients individually so why wouldn’t I enjoy them if they were all mixed together? My logic, however, was faulty. It didn’t taste like egg, bacon, ketchup and mayo but rather some hideous, synthetic attempt to replicate the taste. After two bites, I once again had to trash this sorry mess and find a more appealing lunch elsewhere.

Why were they so awful? I mean, a sandwich is a simple thing to prepare and it seems easy to get it right. Right?

The first problem was the bread itself, which I found thin, excessively soft and lacking in substance. I firmly believe that the success of a sandwich begins with the quality of the bread. Even the tastiest, most gourmet filling won’t survive between two slices of flaccid white bread, bread without any backbone or character whatsoever. But on proper bread, even the simplest filling can taste divine. For example, on a recent trip to Paris I sampled a few sandwiches on lovely fresh, crusty baguettes and was in heaven. The bread was so good I could have eaten it on its own but with only a few simple slices of salami it was transformed into something to truly savour.

Then there’s the problem of the filling. This is an area where the British are remarkably creative, with a plethora of varieties available. But while I find some dull and uninspired - Cheese & Onion, Tuna & Sweetcorn, Egg Salad, Ham and Egg, to name a few – I find others frankly bizarre. There is a worrying trend afoot in Britain of creating sandwich fillings that are condensed versions of main-course meals, reduced into something spreadable that can be eaten casually and conveniently on bread rather than with a knife and fork. As if All Day Breakfast wasn’t enough, there is now Chicken Caesar; the Ploughman's; Pret’s Chicken, Stuffing & Fruity Chutney; and something called Coronation Chicken.

Invented for Queen Elizabeth II and served as a main dish at her coronation lunch in 1953, the sandwich version of Coronation Chicken involves mixing the main ingredients into a room-temperature concoction and layering a scoop of it between two slices of bread. (Yes, in traditional sandwich shops here they scoop up a ball of your choice of pre-mixed filling with what looks like an ice cream scoop and spread it out over the bread.) Although recipes vary, the basic ingredients include diced chicken, mayonnaise, mango chutney, curry powder and – to top it all off – raisins. Just the idea makes me wince, let alone the sight of that lumpy yellow mixture with the raisins peeking out.

If that doesn’t push the goalposts of creativity quite enough, consider Tesco’s latest creation, the Lasagne sandwich. Released just last month, Tesco included the following description of its unique invention in a recent press release:

"The sandwich is made up of two thick slices of bread, a filling of diced beef in a tangy tomato and herb sauce layered with cooked pasta sheets and finished with a creamy cheddar, ricotta and mayonnaise dressing."

Don’t worry. If you think this is bizarre you’re not alone. Even Britain’s News of the World newspaper, not usually known for being discriminating, called it “the strangest sandwich ever”.

Fortunately, for all the sandwich disasters there is some hope out there. After years of avoiding the pre-packed sandwich I decided it was time to experiment again and recently found one that I actually like. My choice is Pret’s Wild Crayfish & Rocket sandwich, which (as long as the bread isn’t soggy as it was on one recent visit) is remarkably tasty. If that isn’t available, their Lemon Chicken is a good runner-up. I remain ambivalent about Pret’s Mature Cheddar & Pickle, although it was highly recommended to me by a British friend of mine. While I found the first several bites oddly interesting and was able to get through half of it with reasonable ease, I found the second half, quite literally, hard to swallow. Not bad but definitely an acquired taste.

If you still prefer a nice crusty baguette to the flaccid bread route, I’d recommend EAT’s Chorizo and Peppers or, if you choose to emulate the Earl of Sandwich, EAT’s Roast Beef and Rocket.

Bon appetit!

For further information:

http://www.sandwich.org.uk/

http://www.pret.com/

http://www.eat.co.uk/

http://www.tescoplc.com/plc/media/pr/pr2010/2010-07-12/

http://www.newsoftheworld.co.uk/news/872888/Tesco-releases-Lasagne-sandwich.html

And when in Paris…

http://www.maison-kayser.com/

Photo from: www.sandwichesonline.co.uk

Picnic Tea

It never fails to amaze me that after living in London for six years the language can still stump me. Recently my sister was visiting from Vancouver and I arranged for us to spend an evening with family friends in England who we had known over 20 years ago while they were spending a year abroad in Canada.

The day of our meeting I was coordinating with my friend J as to when and where to meet when I received a text message from her saying we would be meeting at her brother’s house for “picnic tea” at 6:30pm. I was perplexed. I mean, I am clearly familiar with picnics and have been drinking tea for most of my life but I had no idea what “picnic tea” is.

I asked my sister for her opinion but aside from chuckling over this strange-sounding term, she was as perplexed as I. Were we having tea outdoors? Would we be nibbling on a few tiny cakes and scones with jam? What about dinner? After all, we’d be meeting at 6:30 in the evening. To avoid disappointment, my sister and I decided to go to meet them for tea but politely abscond after a few hours to get dinner on our own on our way back home.

As it turned out, “picnic tea” involved a table full of food including gourmet pizza, a selection of hors d’oeuvres, cold meat and cheese, vegetables and dip washed down by copious amounts of wine and sparkling wine. We were even offered fruit, chocolate squares for dessert, and coffee. Who knew? In fact, when I think back to the evening, we were served virtually everything…except tea.

Yet a brief bit of sleuthing reveals that our picnic tea was not typical. According to one blog entry I discovered, picnic tea is really no more than having tea outdoors, preferably served with a few sweets. And doing a simple web search I even found several online retailers selling picnic tea sets – wicker hampers filled with teacups, saucers, teapot, spoons and even cloth serviettes – for those days when a simple English picnic tea is in order.

So, it seems picnic tea really is just what it says on the box. But this is a box that may still come with surprises.