If you’re not from London, pie and mash might sound like a sad school dinner, but trust me—it’s so much more. It’s a dish born from poverty, a mix of minced beef (or eels, if you’re old-school brave) wrapped in a suet pastry, served with a mountain of fluffy mash and a ladle of “liquor.” Wait, liquor? Yeah, that’s the irony—it’s a thin, greenish parsley sauce, not booze. Very disappointing if you were hoping for a boozy gravy, mate.
The eel element is the real twist. Back in the day, the River Thames was stuffed with eels, making them cheap protein for the masses. Today, most of us stick to beef, but the traditionalists still order “jellied eels” on the side. I tried them once—tasted like the ocean had a cold and sneezed on my plate. Not for the faint of heart.
The Shrine of Formica and Time
Manze’s hasn’t changed its decor since roughly 1953, and that’s its superpower. The floor is covered in those tiny hexagonal white tiles that look like a bathroom from a period drama, and the tables are faux wood Formica with chrome edges. There’s a handwritten sign that says, “No swearing, no phone calls, no fancy coffee.” Okay, I made the last one up, but you get the vibe. It’s pure, unadulterated nostalgia.
You order at the counter from a woman who looks like she’s been there since the shop opened. She’ll slide your plate across the counter without a smile, but don’t take it personally—that’s just the South London service style. It’s efficient, it’s blunt, and it’s oddly comforting. You grab a metal fork from a jar, find a seat, and proceed to drown your pie in malt vinegar and white pepper. No fuss.
One of London's oldest pie and mash shops closes after 93 years with
