The Fish Pie Incident
‘Ooo, that looks lovely’, they cooed. And so it did. Golden, crispy pastry; little pastry fish swimming enthusiastically from one end of the pie roll to the other. I was so proud. A feat of culinary endurance presented to important dinner guests. The two other women at my dinner table were older and, I presumed, far more experienced in the stressful art of haute cuisine. For a reluctant and, at best, average cook it was a moment to savour. Which is exactly how long it lasted.
At the menu planning stage, the first challenge had involved offering a main course suitable for a pescatarian. We hardly ever ate fish in those days as I was terrified by the thought of guts, heads and bones. Perhaps a fully vegetarian recipe would have had more chance of success but even that style of cooking was unfamiliar to me. Either way, it meant preparing something new, a practice that my more experienced self, shuns even today. As I sat pondering, a memory surfaced of a TV show hosted by the Head Chef at London’s Dorchester Hotel. (Yes, I know, presumptuous. A warning, surely!) Anyway, it had featured a fish pie, Russian I think, with layers of ingredients that were encased and baked in a pastry roll. There was succulent pink salmon, yellow egg yolks, green spinach and something starchy – rice? potato? – I couldn’t remember. It had looked mouth-watering on screen as a knife sliced through the outer casing, revealing the multicoloured tiers inside. I pulled down my recipe books and, voila (the chef was French, naturellement), there it was, Russian Fish Pie, with a list of ingredients I recognised. Mostly.
The one puzzling entry was tapioca. I guessed it was the white stuff of my memory; the starchy layer. The recipe suggested 8 ounces (225 grams). Was that wet or dry weight? My anxiety began to rise. I decided to cook the dry weight amount, reasoning that I needn’t use it all if there was too much. When it had boiled through, even I recognised that a large pan full was too much and couldn’t possible all fit in. I was also slightly perturbed by the colour and texture but, hey, a recipe is a recipe and I had nothing else to go on.
The layering went well; the pasty behaved itself; my little fish were recognisable as little fish. With a flourish of egg glaze, I popped it into the oven soon after our guests arrived. Forty minutes later I proudly laid the platter in the middle of the dining table and accepted the compliments and relieved smile from my husband
With a flourish of the knife, I cut through, hearing a pleasing crack. Then before my eyes – and those of my guests – a tsunami of hot, grey frogspawn gushed outwards, swamping the platter. There was a collective intake of breath. There was nothing I could do but watch, as the ghastly discharge formed a toxic-looking moat around my once attractive pie.
‘I’m sure it will taste just as nice,’ one woman trilled. ‘It doesn’t matter what it looks like, it’s the taste that counts.’ They were trying to be helpful, of course, but I was already having my doubts. Sure enough, the tapioca hadn’t only ruined the appearance of the dish, it had seeped into the other layers and overwhelmed the delicate taste of each.
Many years later I bought another recipe book. As I flicked through, I came across ‘Russian Fish Pie’. The white, starchy layer? Rice. You might be interested to know I’ve had the chance to reset history and have my moment in the spotlight!
THE END