The cathedral city of Chelmsford in Essex was the setting for a pie and mash away day long overdue. I would argue that while a cathedral confers city status, two pie shops lends that descriptor a weighty gravitas.

These two shops are recent additions to the civic portfolio, and it was the noble mission of the, er, mashionnaires thus converged to pit the respective wares in a head-to head challenge.

There was much to divert the eye in this lively metropol, not least licensed street furniture embellishment courtesy of local artists. Plus an unlikely combination of cheese and pie brought together under the roof of one man’s van.

But minds long-practised in the art of pieandmashfulness were focused upon F. Cooke’s Eel & Pie House in Moulsham Street – ‘Chelmsford’s first traditional pie and mash shop’.

Within which white cavernous premises the travellers assembled to pay tribute to a family recipe dating back to 1862.

Glee lit the face of Terry Moore as he contemplated the hefty portion before him.

Ray Goldstone seasoned well – in a well seasoned style.

Mike Goldwater bent to the task at hand appetitiously, while your becapped scribe took an extra moment of mashfulness meditation before initiating the forklift.

The Cooke’s platter as served up. These pies are capacious, but on the day I found the filling a bit ‘patty’, and I hope Cooke’s will develop something a little looser. The ‘gusher’ is a popular favourite with pie and mash shoppers – not so pleasing if you’re grabbing a bite on the terraces.

Look, here are newbies Harry Limby of South Hackney and Karen Ramos of Portobello North, both with impeccable p-n-m credentials now emigrated to the Home Counties.

Terry Cecil and his oppo Ken Stearn were building up a head of steam in an irresistible conjunction of pies, Essex and a Saturday

A reunion of the Harveys was made cosier at a table for six. Marcus Harvey brought his two young contenders Mack [last seen at Roy’s in Dagenham in March ’12] and Ava into play, in an occasion presided over by Big Granddaddy / Giant Piestacks Pete Harvey. Here he is, with the youngest family member Myla, whom he describes as ‘the most precocious by a cockney mile’. I sincerely hope her middle name is not ‘End’. The gathering was enlivened by a gallon of fizzy pop.

A spacious, modern interior.

A chunky black eel swimming through two hoops forms the centrepiece of Cooke’s wall-mounted logo.

[Far right] Dinner ladies Izzy and Katy.

That was not the time we left the shop.

A colourised Victorian portrait presides over proceedings in much the same way that Poppa Manze does at 87 Tower Bridge Road. Could this be the original FC?

Half time at the Eel & Pie House.

Not content with fizzy pop, these people went off in search of that bubble tea.

Chelmsford’s pedestrianised civic centre offers leisure opportunities on the street.

We probably burnt off a teaspoon of liquor by the time we reached Robins, some 400 paces distant on the High Street. Its distinctive black and white checked interior was equally cavernous.

By spoon and fork shall ye know them.

As the second instalment was attacked by these peppery, grisled crustodians of proud tradition, Charlotte ‘Ace’ Harvey looked on, by turns bilious and bored.

The mood elsewhere was sober and decorous. Terry C and Ken were limbering up for an evening of unfettered bongo-led boogie with The Bongolian at Finsbury Park

Reliable Robins – thank goodness we were doing it second. The product conformed to the unwavering standard found at all branches.

Despite the modest proportions of the portions, Ray floundered and fell foul at the final hurdle, losing 8 points courtesy of the Club’s punitive scoring system. It was that extra pie at Cooke’s what done him in. Meanwhile Terry Moore plotted a sure and steady course through to dessert.

I think it was apple pie with a hint of charcoal. Karen Ramos had one; partner Harry was sweet enough. With a second reference to Bongos in one lunchtime, we learnt that these two are proud members of the Mazda Bongo Owners’ Club – aka The Bongonauts.

Squash is the preferred sip of serious all-round troffers and scoffers.

This genuinely impressive tiled dining hall produces the effect of a never-ending pie and mash corridor.

Some minimal yet homely touches add a little cheer behind the counter. And I believe that’s a photo of the matriarch herself, June Robbins.

Those left still standing.

After all that, a walk around the pleasure gardens was needed to revive mind, body and spirit. With the confluence of Cam and Chelmer, and the manmade branch of the latter into a city centre wharf, Chelmsford could be described as the Venice of the East. All that’s missing from the picture – apart from thousands of priceless art treasures sinking into a lagoon – is a cadre of Cockney cornetto vendors and pearl-embroidered gondoliers.

Our final stop was the Ale House next the station. While Ace made merry with a non-binary ballon animal, she elucidated the finer points of gender identification in the latter day. And it wasn’t the beer that made my head spin – I need Ace’s ‘Rainbow Guide for Fogeys’. And if it’s in comic book format, I might even read it.

Yours metropoly,

St@