Red Fox Inn

Last weekend I was in Oklahoma. So, naturally, this was the weekend I indulged in grits, horses (ok, driving by), wide open spaces, Sonic, and a multiple steel guitar country ballads. I understand but can't entirely justify the irony. But the irony took me all the way to West Virginia.

To redress a bit of angstiness/torpidity (maybe I just create conditions where I can use such fantastic words), I threw on my best nine dollar Jackie O-ripoff sunglasses and went to her frequent haunt, Middleburg, VA. Today, I just needed to drive. The goal was to drive there and spend the day perusing selections of tea cozies, candle stores, and fancy horse accouterments. But, for amateur food writers and those who didn't find their soul satiated after the hour-or-so drive, the Red Fox Inn was where I paused. I wouldn't dare link "Middleburg" with the banality of "bathroom break."


Middleburg (the part I saw) was arrayed just off Highway 50 and featured a charming array of local boutiques and restaurants. I learned of the Red Fox Inn when I was doing a bit of research on Middleburg a few months ago: it's a historic building and has the simple yet dignified look of Virginia's colonial homes (ok, I did minimal research). The waitstaff exhibited the evident air that their preferred summertime activity was not hosting or refilling water. The dimly lit dining room, however, with its mahogany decor and paintings of ducks, was just what I wanted to see (to assure me of its historic past). For a few moments, at least, until I was seated outside. And the food was delightful.

So, maybe it doesn't look as good in two dimensions. But, I ordered shrimp and grits. The dish was garnished with both Virginia ham and barbecue sauce. It's a bit more intimidating closer up.

The meals were served with a bread basket, which had charming little apple turnovers.

Speaking of charming and little:

That little plaque says this:

I grabbed a coffee from a place nearby called A Cuppa Giddy Up (clever, yes?), got back in my car, and kept heading west. I thought I'd drive until I wanted to turn around. Highway 50 is full of motorcyclists who were doing the same thing I was: riding the small hills, driving through farms and ranches, getting pleasantly blistered by the bright sun, and repeatedly passing barbecue stands. I noticed the three guys in front of me exchange salutations with other motorcylists as they passed each other. I saw a portly man on a red scooter approach from the other direction. The motorcylists in front of me just kept going and there was no salutation. I didn't laugh quietly.

I kept driving and amazingly just happened on a Sonic, my favorite drive-in. I think the drink lady was mildly taken aback by my enthusiasm. I couldn't stop myself trying to catalogue the experience for posterity.

You may notice there is no destination on my GPS. Just a little blue bigfoot truck, driving.

I drove to Capon Bridge. I'm a sucker for roadside attractions that are preceded with multiple signs announcing their existence. It was unspectacular, but I still felt compelled to photograph it because it had an official name and a slogan ("Gateway to the Mountains"), conditions which may actually require very little effort in West Virginia.

I guess the slogan was partially right: