This column could of course be interchangeable with any September club report of recent years, but the mighty mercantile wheels of London grind mercilessly on, gentrifying once dark and grimy orifices in the nether regions of the metropolis. Witness the transformation of one gloomy back passage, Bermondsey Street, into a thoroughfare thronged with boutique, bar, coffee shop and gallery, and the gay cosmopolitans who peruse and patronise its pavements 'contactlessly'.

An aimless flaneur could easily drift southwards onto Tower Bridge Road, casually glancing into the imposing premises of number 87 and believing it to be a film location or themed pop-up. But no, it's a genuine treasure trove of social and cultural legacy, flying the flag for London's original street food.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the combined ages of the codgers and curmudgeons in this scene approaches 200.

[Near right] Two flaneuses collect their urban sensibilities in front of the Baldwins sarsaparilla dispenser. Manze's remains 'cash only'.

[Far right] Doug's well-chosen waistcoat adds a touch of the country gent to his outfit; it's the perfect get-up for an 'ideas farmer' to gallerise in.

Here at the marble altar was their long summer fast broken by vittles plain and simple, in spiritual communion and shared gladness of heart. The Manze's pie continues to excel.

Denise Rouse dazzled with her side bowl of jellied eels; the culinary odyssey stopped not here but at a Chesham bakery where she had pre-ordered apple doughnuts for the homeward journey – that's organised.

Graham Mac thought it was high time to show his face again after four years – but he's only working down the road at the Elephant. Compare with meister Len Wilcock, who commuted all the way from Ilminster to dig the dough with us.

Tom Leader's insurance against less-than-sparkling conversation is reading material to hand.

A friendly and familiar face of Manze's, pie hostess Tracey was celebrating her birthday on the day, despite a massive pain in the neck – not caused by us.

Tracey is an important contributor to the shop's Facebook page. Recently photograhed visitors include Charlie George and Rag and Bone Man ['The', not 'A'].

The magnificent display wall behind the counter.

A close-up on some Manze's parsley-and-white merch. Man-bibs are not yet available.

Here sat the second-coursers; the day's high score was a trouser-stretching 30 from Len Wilcock.

All was observed with some bemusement by a Mister Norman, who was unfortunately boxed-in by some big-bellied Clubbers.

[Above] Having carefully guarded the chinaware all summer, it was time for me to return it to Everton, the reigning champ. Mister Norman, an avid fan of Manze's, observed drily that it looked like a plate of Arment's.

As we waited under the expansive awning for the titans to finish and the rain to pass, Jason the pie man came up for a lungful of fresh Bermondsey air. A cheerful and modest fellow, he sportingly posed for us in his working gear. In case you wondered, mash is not trodden by welly.

Manze's 'pie and sash'.

The post-meridianal pie posse pause on the pavement, pre-pub.

Some wall-colouring on the approach to London Bridge.

'Schiaffo the dough' refers to the Neapolitan method of preparing a pizza base. It's not so far removed from the story of an Italian immigrant who shaped the dough which launched the Manze pie empire 130 years ago.

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