Metro Pulse Online: Fox and Hounds

Comment
on this story

Rating
(out of five)

127 Fox Hound Way
Newport
623-9161

by Les DuLunch

Sometimes we all need to be reminded of our roots. Recently, I found myself almost exactly where I started from—Newport, Tenn.

Sadly, the occasion that brought me there was a funeral, so it wasn't as if I'd returned to the town on a nostalgia trip. I'd gone with Fredro, who is a Newport native as well, to represent the friends' part of a funeral home friends-and-family gathering. When life, or in this case its opposite, deals us lemons, we must make lemonade. And, while an open-coffin funeral isn't the most appetite-whetting experience one could have, the proximity of a large clan of strange, vociferous, and emotional people often is. Ravenous, Fredro and I flipped a coin to choose between Fox and Hounds, a fine little homespun steakhouse, and the brilliantly titled Grease Rack. Unfortunately, Newport's regionally renowned Thai Kitchen was out of the question as Fredro flatly refuses to eat Asian food of any kind.

Despite being located on Fox Hound Way, Fox and Hounds is a little tricky to find. While heading west on 411 past not one but two shells of former Wal-Marts that have contributed to downtown Newport's sad decline, look for a small sign on the right that says AmVets Clubhouse. Turn in between two very dismal-looking juke joints—Slammers and the Blue Room—drive on up the hill, and there it is.

I've always felt that the experience of dining is almost as important as the food itself. Often, it's what happens, what the establishment was like, and how you got there that you remember as much as the food. With Fox and Hounds, the experience is of the fun, illicit kind. In order to get around alcohol-service laws, the restaurant posits itself as a private club. So, after journeying to find the hidden location, you must ring a doorbell to gain entry, and once inside, ominous signs instruct you to register before being seated. The combination of these effects makes you fully aware that you are in the hypocritical heart of the Bible Belt. And having the door opened for you adds an air of welcome lacking in so many establishments where some perky sorority sister simply foists a pager in your direction.

Whatever you do, you'll want to come armed with your own bottle of wine. I didn't carry my notepad into the restroom, so I wasn't able to jot down some of the samples from the brief wine list that is posted over the urinals, but I remember standing there thinking that Dionysus' maenads should descend on whomever was responsible for one that offered a blend of kiwi and strawberry and tear him limb from limb.

In the fine steakhouse tradition, Fox and Hounds offers an entire list of deep-fried starters, which can be washed down with any one of a variety of imported or domestic beers. We ordered a Small Mix ($6.95), which contained cauliflower, mushrooms, and two varieties of cheese (mozzarella and Monterey jack) in order to try as many as possible. The hot, crunchy florets of cauliflower more than made up for the fact that the cook had skimped on the cheese—with only three sticks, Fredro and I nearly came to blows.

Next up were small cups of soup, an incredibly chunky, tomato-based vegetable for Fredro, and a nicely pungent but bouillon-infused French onion for me. Sometimes steakhouses have the most wonderful salads, but that proved not to be the case here, as the bowls of ordinary iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, and white onion that followed were awash in Sysco Food Service dressings (the poppyseed was particularly viscous).

But I hadn't come for rabbit food. No! Steak was the dish du jour—and from the six cuts, I chose filet mignon with grilled charcoal shrimp and baked potato (Market Price). The shrimp, while not too smoky, were nonetheless surprisingly pink, sweet, and luscious. Best of all, they hadn't been grilled so long that they actually welded themselves to the skewer; each one glided down and landed with a plump plop in the ramekin of drawn butter. Meanwhile, the filet hadn't been wrapped in bacon, glazed, spice-rubbed, or grilled over a special variety of wood; it was just a simple, velvety, medium-rare filet that, admittedly, was a little bit on the smallish side.

Not content with the appetizer, Fredro fried himself with a seafood platter ($10.95), which, in the great steakhouse way, contained a mountain of golden-fried oceanic bounty. Clam strips, shrimp, oysters, and scallops were piled higgledy-piggledy beside a fried filet of flounder and a tower of skins-on French fries. Absolutely every bit of it was as frozen as the chunk of ice that sent the Titanic down, and each was encrusted in a thick, corn meal-mixed batter. But don't get me wrong—we weren't expecting tempura-, beer-, or even something simple like lemon-pepper batter; once again, plain-as-day won the day. The platter was as perfectly bland and American as a strip mall in Farragut and just as satisfying.

Dessert did disappoint. Like most pies, the slice of Kentucky Derby pie ($3.25) I ordered for dessert, came served in a wedge-shaped slice. But unlike other pies, the thin corner was unbearably hot, containing burning globs of melted chocolate chips amidst too-soft pecans and too-firm coconut. Towards the middle, the temperature evened out, but by the time I got three-quarters of the way through, I had to stop because my fork simply wouldn't penetrate the permafrost of what remained. An evil microwave was certainly to blame.

Heaven knows why you would ever find yourself in Newport, but if you too have strayed from your beginnings and need to be grounded with some small-town, middle-class memories, a trip to Fox and Hounds is an ideal recipe for returning to your roots.