The Three Stags

67-69 Kennington Road, Lambeth SE1 7PZ

Most places on t’internet will try to tell you that the Three Stags is old, ropey and cursed with staff ineptitude. But they haven’t seen the Three Stags: Mach 2. Three charismatic chefs have snaffled up the property as of late and driven a huge truckload of fresh ideas in through the front door. As such, the pub’s character now emanates directly from those characters who run it.

Victor - the Spaniard - is so chirpy he would probably laugh at his own funeral whilst Richard - the former owner of Holland Park’s Windsor Castle – could charm the ass out of a donkey. The ironically-named three stag partnership is completed by Mike, who isn’t a chirpy Spaniard but a token Kiwi. He is, however, so obsessive about food preparation that he even peels the butterbeans.

You cant mention the Three Stags without mentioning the Imperial War Museum because it stands, imperialistically, just across the road. Vic, Rich and Mike have their thinking caps fastened extra tight because they’ve made the clever tactical maneuver of going English. Tourists will now be able to immerse themselves in the patriotic blood-n-guts of historical English warfare before popping in to the Three Stags to immerse themselves in the cor-blimey-guvnor décor and bally-spiffing English nosh, what?!

SO old school English is the Three Stags that upon entering the establishment for a pint of best, an authentic Spitfire plane will whizz along the bar to serve you whilst sporting a rather fetching top hat and tails and doing a perfect impression of Churchill (the Prime Minister, not the jowly insurance hound). Plus, the beady gaze of Queen Victoria will be upon her former subjects at all times as a knowing bust of her has been positioned above the door. Even the polish that gives the dark wood its shining sparkle is sourced from that southern English colony just off the Kentish coast: France.

If that isn’t English enough for you, get this - they even have a selection of ENGLISH wines. Yes, English! And yes, wines! As alien as it might sound, we English actually make our own wine. And before jumping to conclusions about the quality, you’re wrong. It is actually pretty flippin’ fabulous. Yes, flippin’! And yes, fabulous! Chapel Down’s Pinot Reserva, although originating from the German Bacchus grape, is grown and bottled in Kent.

Part of the reason behind these Rieslings is that the Three Stags is attempting to show a little environmental integrity. This means the entire wine list is European to save on air freighting. It also means everything on the food menu is dictated by the time of year so if it’s not in season, it’s not happening (luckily, the vegetarian gnocchi doesn’t hybernate and is, thankfully, included all times. It’s yummy. So you should try it). All the food is free range and from renewable, sustainable resources (including the vegetarian gnocchi. Which is yummy. So you should try it). Even the gin is brewed locally and the loos have half-flush options (these last two aspects are not connected).

Thanks to the two large sides of window, there’s plenty of natural light in the Three Stags and if you’ve been there on previous occasions you’ll have been dazzled by its brightness because of the frightening cream-and-white colour scheme. This was only exacerbated by the 15 or so chandeliers hung from the ceiling. If you were a moth, you probably loved it. Now, thankfully, it’s darker, greener, browner and less shiny and the faux 1940s wallpaper and pendent lights help emphasise its Englishnessness. The large awnings outside are for the benefit of smokers, lovers of sunshine and those that enjoy shouting obscenities at passing traffic.

The good looking crowd is hip, but not ingratiatingly so. They are cool at being cool and adhere to the invisible sign floating above the bar that says “No pretention here. Frivolity, clinking glasses and big guffawing laughter only”. The subdued and inoffensive background music mixes well with the sound of Amstel, Scrumpy Jack, Old Speckled Hen and Peroni being poured from the taps (amongst others). And finding a better establishment in the area is as arduous as trying to explain the rules of cricket to an American. Who is deaf. And dead.

Recommended: by Charlie Chaplin’s pissed-up father who was in here so often they named a corner booth after him.

Avoid: if you have no friends. It’s a sharing kind of place.