Larry finds that Surrey continues to punch above its weight — this time in a Lutyens-designed Liberal Club that now serves chalk stream trout and a sticky toffee pudding that may well ruin all others…
As a sometime restaurant reviewer for these pages — and living ‘out of town’, as it were — I’ve long espoused the benefits of escaping the capital of a weekend and diving into some of the excellent hostelries we have in the shires. Lately, it seems we’re rather spoilt for choice in Surrey, and one of the newest arrivals on the scene (though coming up to its first anniversary now) is the intriguingly-named Third Monkey in Farnham.
Farnham, for the uninitiated, sits just inside the Surrey-Hampshire border, around an hour south-west of London — the kind of handsome Georgian market town that manages to feel genuinely unhurried without being smug about it: commuter country, yes, but with deep roots and real civic pride. Its discerning populace know what they have, and treasure it. The independent high street still holds its own, the countryside rolls obligingly in every direction, and there’s a sense that things are done properly here. Little surprise, then, that it would attract an offering designed with the cognoscenti in mind, and the latest of these would seem to have that in mind even in its very fabric.
The Third Monkey — more on the name later — is housed in a stately redbrick designed by the great Sir Edwin Lutyens in 1894, built specifically for the town’s Liberal Club. It’s a noble heritage, and Executive Chef Adam Fisher, an Ascot native and two-time National Chef of the Year finalist, has found in it a fitting canvas.
In an age of gastropubs and restaurants endlessly seeking an identity somewhere between casual and fine dining, this one uses its spaces with intelligence: there’s a genuine pub atmosphere as you come through the door, casual dining at the rear — where we’re directed — complete with burgundy leather banquettes and parquet flooring, and a restaurant with cocktail bar upstairs that would make for a rather enticing evening.
A veritable loaf of brioche-like bread arrives straight from the oven, served with whipped butter, and keeps the hangry at bay while our Little Nest of Vipers tears into it with such intent that the table rapidly begins to resemble a crime scene. She, too, begins to take the lead on the ordering — principally on account of the children’s menu, aptly called Cheeky Monkeys, which offers a decent three courses rather than the usual token gesture. The tomato soup she elects as a starter would have impressed a grown-up: homemade, swirled with basil-infused oil. “OMG,” she declared, “that’s amazing,” and proceeded to dip what remained of the bread. Reader, there wasn’t much.
Meanwhile, as its famed crab crumpet suggests, starters from the à la carte confirm this is far from provincial gastropub territory. Buttermilk chicken arrives with a ‘house’ hot gochujang sauce given additional tang and texture with pickled mooli and puffed rice. They divide us; as Mrs L goes back in to mop up the sauce, I declare the chalk stream trout my winner, and it’s a canny one: served sashimi-style after being marinated in lychee, with whipped wasabi cream and fennel kimchi. In the heat of the spring we’d been having, I kept imagining it on the terrace with a glass of Gavi. A thought for another day.
The à la carte takes those openers to town — I definitely sense a return visit, an evening one — but we’re here on a Sunday, and the roasts come suitably pimped in spite of the near-heatwave outside. There are some lovely touches: a Yorkshire filled with shortrib ragu, for a start. As I begin to cogitate on the finer points, my Meg Ryan-esque offspring — fussy by nature, a critic by inclination — realises too late that she has undersold herself by insisting her pasta arrive plain, sauce on the side. She begins eyeing Mrs L’s roast chicken with unconcealed interest, and then, inevitably, helping herself to it. “This is so smooth, so juicy, so well cooked. Dad, write that down.” “And your pasta, my dear?” I venture. Untouched. Well, we all have our blind spots.
What makes The Third Monkey stand out, though, is its attention to detail: beyond the ‘filled’ Yorkshire, ramekins of Black Bomber cauliflower cheese arrive alongside ‘seasonal’ greens of tenderstem, green beans and shredded leeks. The beef, too, is not just beef, it’s treacle cured Picanha, slow-roasted overnight and fried in aged beef dripping. The roast is not merely a roast; it’s a considered thing.
For my part, the beef was crying out for a Malbec, but our maître d’ steered me instead towards a Macedonian Xinomavro, and he was right. There’s a collective approach to the wine list here, selections are made by the team as a whole, so the recommendation carries the weight of practical experience rather than the sommelier’s solo conviction. It doesn’t surprise me. The service throughout is more than simply fluid and friendly; there’s a genuine warmth that goes well beyond the perfunctory, an enthusiasm that feels unforced.
And so to desserts where, just as I’m about to eschew the ubiquitous Sticky Toffee Pudding, I’m gently urged to reconsider. “You won’t find one like it, sir,” I’m assured. A staple of every pub menu in the land, each one straining to forge its own identity, this version arrives with salted caramel Baked Alaska ice cream and a moat of toffee sauce. It sets a benchmark, I’m afraid, and I fear it has inspired something of a comparison exercise to come.
But it’s the cheeseboard that truly floats my boat — admittedly, as a vehicle for the wine — and here, again, the provenance is quietly impressive. Short of a proper trolley, these are cheeses chosen because someone knows a thing or two: Blue Monday, Tunsworth, Driftwood, presented with homemade nougatine, onion chutney and quince purée, and when the board arrives I’m guided as to which garnish pairs with which. I’m in seventh heaven.
You may be wondering why, with the mercury climbing and a terrace overhead, we’d chosen to dine inside; but having escaped the heat of the day, the spring evening was now offering exactly what it had promised. We concluded upstairs, on the terrace itself. The digestif list runs between their take on an espresso martini and a Buffalo Trace old fashioned; I’m steered towards the latter — the Beekeeper, as they call it, on account of its being aged in beeswax. Settled into the terrace on the warmest evening of the year so far, a welcome breeze reminding us we’re as good as in the country, Mrs L set down her cachaça Kalamanski Lemonade and looked around. “I feel like I’m on holiday,” she said.
And that, dear reader, is no finer recommendation. It’s rare to find somewhere of this calibre, at this price, outside the capital — not a country hotel, not a high-end chain, but an independent with genuine ambition and, crucially, the kitchen to back it up. As I sipped, I caught the manager and asked, at last, after the name: the logo on the menu depicted the monkey not disposed to speak. “Keeping a secret?” I wondered. “You’d think,” he replied, “but it’s actually a reference to the owner’s third child — his third monkey.”
Some things, it turns out, need no mystery at all. They just need to be this good.
The Third Monkey, 46 South Street, Farnham, Surrey GU9 7RP. Open Monday to Sunday from noon; Friday and Saturday until 1am. And if this is enough to whet your appetite, the new spring menu features even more delectable dishes, and is now available. For more information, and for reservations, visit thirdmonkeyfarnham.com.
