Jellied Eels

It's summer, 2004, and Matt and I are waiting outside La Perla for Brian to come out. The outside tables surrounding the plaza are full, of course, so I ask this guy sitting alone with a book if we can share his while we wait for our friend.

We get to talking. His name's Lee and he's from London. When Brian eventually does come out, he takes a seat and the four of us pass the afternoon with mixed drinks in the sun, which is pretty much what everyone does after the bulls have finished running, at 8:04 a.m.

Lee spends the next four days with us -- the remainder of the fiesta. We get along, and I ask him what the one thing is that I shouldn't miss in London if ever go. Without hesitation he tells me: Jellied eels.

None of us believe him, but he assures us, unbelievable as it sounds: jellied eels. Get yourself to East London and tell them: "Double pie, double mash, extra jellied eels."

Fast forward. It's February, 2005, and I'm in King's Cross, London for the week. Every night after the conference, my co-worker and I hit the nearest pub and one night I strike up a conversation with the middle-aged couple at the bar. They are married, and overweight, and missing teeth. They ask me if I am from America, and I say yes. What am I doing in Europe? I tell them I live in Germany, to which they reply "Oh dear, it just keeps getting worse." Oh, that English wit. We chat a bit but I am aware that there are brass tacks which need getting down to. I ask: "Where can I get some jellied eels around here?"

They tell me that King's Cross is prime jellied eel territory -- perhaps the jellied eel district in London -- and give me directions to a pie shop which turns out to be right next to where the conference is. They are impressed that I've heard about jellied eels, and even more so that I want to try them. It makes me feel good, like I'm more than just a tourist. This is how Jane Goodall felt when the monkeys saw that she wanted to eat bugs with them; this is how it feels to be accepted.

"I will warn you," the man says to me, "the jellied eels are an acquired taste." He stresses those last two words. It is clear that this is a warning. It makes me a little nervous though I'm careful not to show my fear. I excuse myself and return to my co-worker, whom I've left sitting alone with his beer for the past 10 minutes while discussing eels.

The next day is the last day of the conference. When it gets out, we follow the directions to the pie shop down a short, pedestrian-only street filled with vendors of incense and home-made jewelry, fresh fish on ice, leather wallets and purses, that sort of thing. The kind of outside street-market does not give one the impression of prosperity. I later learn that jellied eels became popular in East London for once being the absolute cheapest meat one could buy.

It often saddens me in Europe to see McDonald's all over the place, making it look more and more like America each day. I realize at this point though that providing a cheap-meat alternative to jellied eels may be the one acceptable reason for seeing Ronald McDonald painted onto the facade of a 300-year-old building.

We find the place, at the end of the street. "Pie and Mash" the sign says. "Jellied eels." It does not look sanitary, and my co-worker informs me that he's going back to the hotel. But I haven't come this far to turn back now.

I go in and say to the woman behind the counter: "Double pie, double mash, extra jellied eels." I glance at the menu written out in chalk above her head, and find it odd that "Pie" and "Double pie" are both separate menu items, the latter costing exactly twice as much as the former. Similar configurations of mash are offered.

The woman is brought what looks like a large metal muffin tin by a younger version of herself, but instead of muffins the wells of the tin contain pies. Their faces -- her and her daughter -- are just a little puffy, eyes tired, long blond hair looking a little stringy. They look like they'd rather be home chain smoking and watching soaps. This may just be what a day in the pie shop does to you. They both have the comedy London accent that Dick van Dyke tried to nail in Mary Poppins, which I like, and are friendly.

Mom pops two of the pies out of the tin and onto a plate, then opens up a large metal vat in the counter and scoops out a generous portion of mash. Then she turns around to another vat behind the counter which I can see contains one solid block of gelatin inside of which are suspended eels.

She scoops out a bowl's worth with what looks like an over-sized ice cream scoop. I wonder if this actually is an ice cream scoop or if utensils are specifically made for jellied eels and, if so, who makes them?  Could I pick up an Onieda cutlery set, complete with demitasse spoon and eel scoop?

She gives me my food and I slide into one of the wooden booths that line the shop. The jellied eels are in a separate bowl, on a separate plate, and I choose to ignore them for a few minutes. I'm not ready. The two pies and the mash are covered in a strange white sauce with green bits that I think might be ... dill? I'm not sure. They look dry and unappetizing. I look nervously at the eels and dig into the mash. It tastes the way it looks, bland and bad.

And now I decide it is time. I slide the bowl of eels toward me. They're cut into thick round sections, like unbaked cookies from those tubes of pre-made cookie dough. They're completely white, except for a ring of blueish-grey skin that reminds me of a corpse.  I have decided that I will not eat the skin. Each one has a core of bone the diameter of my thumb.

I raise a bit of eel on my fork to my mouth. It has bits of trembling gelatin clinging to it, and doesn't smell like anything at all. I pop it in quickly. Don't think; just do.

I chew, and out gushes cold, cold water rife with the flavor of the sea, the flavor of floating scum and oil along the dock, the flavor of death itself. Oh my God, it is bad. I am petrified, and can no longer will my jaw to move.

Oh, Mother, oh God, oh please someone help me, help be keep this gagging and urge to vomit at bay. I find that if I remain perfectly still I can't taste the eel juice, and this gives me time to think. What do I do? Spit it out on the plate? No, this would be messy and unsightly, and could not be done fast enough to avoid tasting the eel water. The only thing I can do is try for one quick, swift swallow, and chase it down with a big spoonful of mash. I try to focus, to prepare myself. I know that if I do the normal moving-the-food-to-the-back-of-the-mouth-then-swallow action, I won't make it, and the resulting scene will not be pretty, not pretty at all. Every time I start to move the muscles of my mouth to swallow, I gag. I takes four or five times before I get it down.

I'm now eating mash to get the taste of eel out of my mouth when the daughter comes up to my table and asks "So, do you like 'em?"

"The jellied eels?" I ask, hoping she was asking about something else, and I wouldn't have to lie.

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, I had been warned that they're an acquired taste." I stress the words.

"Have you acquired it?"

Oh, that English wit.

"I'll let you know if I do before I finish the meal."

I eat the pie, I eat the mash. It is bland, but not offensive. I go extra slow, to make them think I am also enjoying my jellied eels, and then get up to pay the bill.

"So, did you like them?" she asks me again.

"The jellied eels?" The image of her, nude and holding the eel-scoop, pops into my mind.

"Yeah."

"Oh. Yes, I loved them, but I ate so much pie and mash that I just didn't have much room left for eels. Poor planning, I'm afraid."

She looks at me for a second, puzzled, and says, "So, you did like them?"

I want to leave before her or her mother notice the large bowl of uneaten eels, but as I step out the door I stop and ask her if she likes jellied eels. She wrinkles her nose and replies, "I don't really like sea food." And I leave the shop.

Continuing my trend of ending these tales on a sentimental note; Lee, if you're out there, go fuck yourself.