Address: Mitton Road, Mitton, Whalley, Lancashire.
Telephone: 01254 826888.
Open Lunch: Mon-Sat, 12 noon-2pm. Dinner: Mon-Thur, 6pm-9pm; Fri-Sat, 6pm-9.30pm. Also Sunday, 12 noon-8.30pm.
Guide prices: Three courses, £25-£30 per person (with wine).
No smoking.
Wheelchair access, including to WC.
Is the whole of Britain slowly transforming itself into one gigantic gastronomic theme park? Every time a classic book is turned into a TV series, yet another historic town that served as its backdrop seems to abandon its identity and its ancient regional specialities in exchange for a media marketing fiction, complete with newly invented traditional "fayre".
During the 1990s, Stamford began promoting itself as "Middlemarch Country" (and its tearooms started selling "Dr Casaubon's scones"), mass-produced frozen meals are now dished up as Anne Hathaway's cottage pies throughout "Shakespeare Country", and it's rumoured that Keighley is now rebranding itself as "Gaskell Country", doubtless selling pastries made with flour from Thornton's Mill.
Meanwhile, suitably labelled boxes of fudge (most made in Korea) can be found everywhere from "Herriot Country" (formerly North Yorkshire), to "Lorna Doone Country" (once known as Exmoor), and the trend will reach its logical conclusion on the day that Saddleworth Moor is finally rebranded as "Hindley Country", with tourists encouraged to purchase Brady sausages and Myra's muffins. Or how about a Harold Shipman curry in Todmorden? Well, the doctor's favourite saying was, "I could murder a nan."
I drove through Hindley Country during the autumn, on my way to the Three Fishes in Whalley. I'd heard that this Ribble Valley pub had just reopened (under the auspices of Nigel Haworth of Northcote Manor) and was claiming to specialise in traditional Lancastrian food, so I was keen to discover if this was the real thing, or some ghastly plastic gastropub simulacrum. As usual, I trusted my nose (it's never wrong), and after the extractor fans had passed my nasal purity test, I ventured inside. And what a vast inside it is, too, to the point that I had to ask for a table near the waiter.
The teetotal(ish) Viv Stanshall lookalike who occasionally accompanies me to (and drives me home from) these restaurants ordered me a tequila (unasked), but responsibly contented himself with a traditional non-alcoholic sarsaparilla, made by Mawsons of Oldham. The cask ales were also local (mainly from Thwaites of Blackburn) and I soon realised that the emphasis on quality regional produce is almost an obsession here, with no fewer than 33 local producers honoured by name on the back of the menu. Here you can learn about the provenance of your beef (Jim Curwen of Bowland Forest), your cheese (Bob Kitchen of Chipping) and even your cauliflower (Peter Ashcroft of Tarleton).
Although the place is Whalley by name, it's certainly not by nature, because I received the warmest welcome imaginable, followed by speedy and thoroughly professional service from the well-informed and predominantly young staff.
Viv began with buttered crumpet and Bob's day-old Lancashire curd (with cress and Ashcroft's beetroot salad), and was impressed to the point of rambling on about it (I'm small talk intolerant - it's a medical condition). "This is the only place in Britain you'll get it," he ranted. "The curd is what Lancashire cheese is made from, it's got the nascent flavour and the same crumbly characteristics." I ordered North Sea cod fishcake with parsley sauce, along with some curly leaf that looked like an aerial shot of Kew Gardens.
For the main course, Viv had the heather-reared Bowland lamb Lancashire hotpot with pickled red cabbage, and was far too engrossed in it to pass judgment (thank Christ), while I had Jim Curwen's trencherman Bowland Forest cottage pie with soused strong onions (like pickled onions, but were they lactically prepared?), along with brown sauce in a little rustic pot. I also had a second tequila and was getting soused, too.
The puddings were better still. Viv's apple and quince crumble was firm yet light, while my chocolate and orange pudding with clotted cream was the finest I've had in many years. The chunks of bitter Seville orange perfectly matched the bitterness of the chocolate, although I had to resist the waiter's offer of yet another tequila. As Viv said, "One tequila . . . two tequila . . . three tequila . . . floor" (so he'd bought the drinks merely to expedite a weak pun, from which I really ought to have spared you).
The Three Fishes opened in September (after a £500,000 refurbishment of the 400-year-old building) and currently operates at a culinary standard that most gastropubs could only dream of. It's got a few peculiarities, and I could have done without the occasional Jamie Olivered adjectives on the menu ("wicked mayonnaise"), but overall it offers honest regional food at honest regional prices.
As Viv left, he confided that his hotpot was the best he'd ever had, and he's a man who certainly knows his meat, being fully prepared to eat every last part of any lamb, cow, or pig ("including the oink"). Every Christmas, he once told me, his table is graced with a traditional stuffed pig's head. Which is a coincidence. So is his neck.
