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a plate of jellied eels in london |
by Kevin Risner
There are times when I imagine what something unknown might look like; I get snapshots that paint a vividly screaming scene that has no basis on truth. Perhaps it is the optimist in me, full of hope that what is being described to me will indeed be delightful and pleasant. Spotlights stream and flash overhead, gimmicky neon signs point at whatever it is, and it becomes the most alluring thing in the world. As I sipped on a Samuel Smith's bitter at The Princess Louise in London and heard about jellied eels and that—if I were to eat one thing while in the city and make it quintessentially "London"—this dish should be what must try, I received a few images in my head.
The lighting of the café was dim and smooth, an orange glow you might find if a lamp shone from behind maroon curtains. On the plate was a mound of what looked like orange gelatin, the kind you'd create from what's inside Jell-O boxes; within were pieces of what could be mistaken for mandarin pieces or grapes and bananas. Something delectable and refreshing during a hot August afternoon, so good that I was tempted at the moment to run off to one of the markets (if only they were open)!
My goal for the rest of the week was to get to the markets around Tower Bridge, or perhaps some little café that could have served the London trademark (eaten mainly by the poor) since the 18th century. My sister—currently residing in London—did not see the intrigue and possible delights that consuming jellied eels might provide, but she went along for the journey to M Manze, located in Peckham.
A queue had already formed out the door. Also available at the shop were pies and mash, covered with a green-hued gravy coined as "liquor." We ordered eels, and then two pies and two helpings of mash if the eels proved uneatable.
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As we marched to an open booth, my eyes skirted over other people's dishes and found no one—not one person—putting down any form of eel, jellied or stewed. This, to me, was a warning sign. Nevertheless, I sat down and looked at the plate; my visions of the beautiful aquatic dish shattered on a rank wooden table, replaced by a wriggly heap of what I hoped might be lemon gelatin surrounding what I hoped might taste like the eel sushi I've eaten (and liked). The fork in my hand stabbed a piece that did not have much of its corpse-like skin, and I ate it.
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The jelly served as the name suggested: it gelled the pieces of eel together into a hideous quasi-cooked pile of seafood better left in the 18th century. In spots it looked as if it had not quite thawed out, and my teeth scraped against hardness only to be bluntly described as bone. There was no real taste, only a bit of the fishiness one might expect with such a dish, no fruity sweetness or even excessive saltiness you'd find in some seafood. The gelatin served to bring out the slimy aftertaste, thankfully quelled by a few sips of lemon Fanta.
The pie and mash were a godsend. The crust was crispy and not too filling, and the inside held a meager stuffing of mince that would leak out upon fork perforation. The blandness did not rule for long, for the liquor seeped through the potatoes and brought a nice mixture of parsley and salt into my mouth. The pie and liquor combination made me a contented cow, pleased with not having to eat any more of the eels and insisting my sister to taste the destruction.
With the pies and the mash fully gone, we quickly left the eels behind in a prison that Bill Cosby would be ashamed of. The women behind the counter waved us off, not knowing we had left a fresh helping of jellied eels for them to pitch. It is best left in a bin.
So...on to bigger and tastier things!
Kevin Risner graduated from Baldwin-Wallace College in Berea, Ohio, where he wrote articles for both of his college newspapers. Starting in 2007, he spent a year teaching English in Istanbul, Turkey and has recently headed back there to do more of the same, along with other writing projects yet to be determined.
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