How I discovered pie & mash:
On a walk down Bethnal Green Road, the contemporary cultural mashup of London oozes: kebab/burger/chicken/chips shops aplenty, a smattering of proper pubs, a bustling vaguely "ethnic" pavement market, a lone McDonald's shining like a dubious beacon of infiltrating corporate poshness, and....
this. What is this. What is this bizarrely spartan little shop, decked out in all the white-and-green-tiled splendour of an early-20th-century bathroom, doing amidst this garish burbling of cultural flux? How...how does that work?
Pie and mash. It doesn't make SENSE. With a menu consisting of 1. Pie and 2. Mash, G. Kelly is surely a bastion of hipster foodie renaissance. Or a celebrated must-see tourist mecca. When everything around is noisy, shiny, dirty, drunken, constantly hybridising and surely 90% regenerate by the decade, how else does a stoic little specialty shop retain its viability AND complete invariability? Something can't just BE for 80 years without morphing into a self-legend or a self-caricature or a self-bastardisation of original principles.
Can it?
Um. It would seem that way. I walk into G. Kelly. The woman behind the counter exudes the charmingly humourless Cockney accent/attitude of the movies, the handful of folks gingerly squished into narrow wooden bleacher-like booths toil timelessly away at their sustenance. There's no celebrity wall, no board of newspaper clippings, no accumulated kitsch. No hype, no attempt to make me feel welcome, no TOURIST, no FOODIE.
Two pastries are plucked steaming from rectangular oversized-cupcake moulds, unceremoniously tossed (barehanded, I note with perverse joy) onto a plain white dinner plate; a big inelegant scoop of mashed potato is unceremoniously swathed against said plate's edge; a ladle of queasily green sauce is ever-so-slightly ceremoniously splashed atop everything.
It is refreshingly honest and filling sustenance. The puddle of green "liquor", essentially a parsley gravy, is a peculiarly apt milieu for the simple savoury pies and no-frills potato mash. I eat in silence as old-timey East End accents murmur. I'm in a 1930s reenactment without the acting. I suddenly epiphanise: this place is COOL. Absolutely dead COOL. Stoic commitment to ultimate simplicity, total self-assurance. Whether profiting madly or on the brink of bankruptcy, G Kelly will look exactly the same: same menu, same attitude, same commitment to being what exactly it was and is and will be. Fish and chips and kebab and fried chicken be damned: This is PIE AND MASH till death or debt do us part.
Respect.
My "thanks" on the way out is reciprocated by a curt nod/half-smile combo. Heartily filled (I can sense the looming development of a "comfort food" relationship with this stuff), I am birthed out into the swarming unease of Bethnal Green. It all seems a little silly and futile for a moment; why do they all rush about, changing their wares....
About £4 for 2 pies and mash at G. Kelly, by the way. Suppose it's a bit too affordable for the foodie hipster revolution. read more