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Begin at the Fishmonger's Slab

There is no dish that says coastal Britain quite like a fish pie. It is the meal you make when the wind is coming off the sea sideways, when the harbour lights are on by four o'clock and the dog refuses to go out again. And like most good seaside cooking, it starts not in the kitchen but at the counter, talking to someone who knows what came off the boat this morning.

A proper fish pie is a thrifty dish dressed up as a treat. It was invented to make the most of mixed catch, odd fillets, and the bits that would not sell on their own. Keep that in mind and you will cook it better. You are not trying to showcase one perfect piece of fish; you are building a comforting, savoury, faintly smoky whole.

Choosing Your Fish

Aim for roughly 700g to 800g of trimmed fish to feed four to six people generously. The classic combination is two parts white fish to one part smoked haddock, and it is hard to beat.

For the white fish, ask what is landed and in season. Look for:

• Cod or coley for a firm, chunky bite that holds its shape.
• Pollock or whiting when you want something kinder to the pocket and just as good under sauce.
• Plaice or lemon sole in the warmer months, though these are softer and will collapse into the sauce.
• Smoked haddock, undyed if you can get it, for that deep golden savour that makes the whole dish taste of the coast.

Ask your monger to skin and bone it, and to keep the trimmings if they are happy to. A handful of raw prawns or a few scallops folded in at the last minute is a lovely upgrade, but never essential. What matters is that the fish smells of clean sea, not of ammonia.

The Poaching Liquor and the Sauce

This is where a fish pie is won or lost. You want a sauce thick enough to hold a spoon upright for a second, but loose enough to run when you cut into the pie.

Pour 500ml of whole milk into a wide pan with a bay leaf, six black peppercorns, a strip of lemon peel and a few parsley stalks. Bring it just to the edge of a simmer, then slide in the white fish and smoked haddock in a single layer. Poach gently for four to five minutes only. The fish should be barely opaque. Lift it out with a slotted spoon onto a plate and strain the milk, keeping every drop.

In a clean pan, melt 50g of butter, stir in 50g of plain flour and cook it for a minute without letting it colour. Add the strained poaching milk a splash at a time, whisking, then stir in 200ml of double cream. Simmer for five minutes until it coats the back of a spoon. Finish with a heaped teaspoon of Dijon mustard, a good squeeze of lemon, plenty of chopped parsley, salt and white pepper. Taste it. It should be quite seasoned, because the potatoes will mute it later.

Leeks, and Building the Filling

Slice two decent leeks, white and pale green parts only, and soften them slowly in a knob of butter with a pinch of salt for ten minutes. You want them sweet and silky, not browned. Stir them through the sauce.

Flake the poached fish into large chunks, discarding any stray bones, and fold it gently into the sauce with the leeks. Add a handful of prawns now if you are using them. Some coastal families add two chopped hard-boiled eggs at this stage, and I would not argue with them. Tip everything into a deep ovenproof dish, roughly 2 litres. It should come about three-quarters of the way up. Resist the urge to stir it smooth; you want texture.

Mash, Cheddar and the Bake

Peel 1.2kg of floury potatoes, cut them into even chunks and boil in well-salted water until a knife slides in without resistance. Drain, then leave them in the colander for a minute to steam dry. Mash with 60g of butter and enough warm milk to make a soft, spreadable mash. Season it properly.

Spoon the mash over the filling. Do not press it down hard. Drag a fork across the surface in waves, which gives you more crisp edges, then scatter over 80g of grated mature Cheddar. That sharp note cuts through the cream beautifully, and it is the difference between a good fish pie and a memorable one.

Bake at 200C, 180C fan, gas mark 6 for 25 to 30 minutes, until the top is deep gold and the sauce bubbles up at the edges. If it is colouring too fast, cover loosely with foil. Let it stand for ten minutes before serving. It will be molten straight from the oven and you will burn your mouth if you do not wait.

Getting It to the Table

Serve with something sharp and green. Buttered garden peas, purple sprouting broccoli in winter, or simply a bowl of watercress with lemon. A glass of dry white or a mug of tea, depending on the hour and the weather.

Any leftovers reheat well the next day, loosened with a splash of milk, though the topping will never be quite as crisp. If you have more filling than dish, spoon it over toast and grill it. That, quietly, is what coastal cooking has always been about: good fish, cooked kindly, stretched far enough to feed everyone at the table.