For years, my birthday treat was a day out in Helmsley and environs, including lunch at the Star in Harome. This year the visit came early, for another birthday treat, this time for a 90-year old. And excellent it was, too.
Much as I have enjoyed those stellar lunches, they may well be displaced by a new favourite. The tiny Fox and Hounds is a restaurant, despite its name, and is buried – like the treasure it is – in the aptly-named hamlet of Goldsborough, a mile or so inland from the rugged cliffs north of Whitby.
The sky was cerulean blue and the tide was out, so we donned our boots and walked from Runswick Bay. My memory of this walk was clearly faulty, or perhaps my weight has significantly increased since the last time I did it. Either way, it was uphill for almost the entire distance, and the phrase "uphill struggle" had real meaning by the time we trudged from the coastal path up yet another incline into Goldsborough. Hence, we were slightly late, but the welcome was warm and gracious.
The dining rooms are separate and small, with only three or four tables in each. There are ornaments dotted about and chairs have dinky cushions. The minimalism beloved of posh London restaurants is absent, and frankly I couldn’t care less one way or the other, but a bit of clutter does create a more comfortable atmosphere, at least to someone as untidy as I know myself to be.
Fellow diners were friendly and unstuffy, which is fortunate as mobile phones don’t work at Runswick Bay. Ten minutes after sitting down, one of ours trilled loudly, to our great embarrassment, in response to messages left on voicemails earlier. "Oh, can you get reception here?" commented another diner. "That’s useful to know." There is a lot about the Fox that is useful to know, in particular its existence, as well as the absolute need to book on the Friday and Saturday nights when it is open.
The menu is short, with three starters, three mains and three puddings. The wine list is much longer and features plenty of choice for those who are on a budget as well as those who like to splash out.
A kir royale came in a Yorkshire-sized glass, and had just the right amount of cassis. The French have a tendency to put too much in and create a kind of Ribena cocktail (despite the fact that they invented it), but the lighter touch of the F&H supplied the necessary hint of blackcurrant without overpowering the end result. A basket of bread, with a bowl of olive oil, was put on the table and disappeared too quickly. I tried to save a slice to eat with my first course but the competition for it was too fierce. I assume it was home-made and I forgot to get a recipe, but it was bread of the highest order and the utmost deliciousness. It wasn’t dinky, either.
Dinkiness returned in the form of a perfectly-trimmed lamb cutlet served in a small soup plate. Every scrap of fat or gristle had been meticulously cleaned from this, leaving a nugget of perfectly-cooked, succulent lamb, slightly charred on the outside, pink and juicy within. This sat happily in a nest of long beans, thankfully not al dente (aka half raw) dressed with tomato and with a slick of tapenade and other goodies which I neglected to note down as I was too busy devouring them.
The Fox obviously sets out its stall as something of a seafood establishment as fish is well-represented on its menu. So we could have had sea trout – a favourite of mine, and a fish only seasonally available in the summer. Perversely, we both went for the fillet steak, which came with chips and grilled radiccio. Normally I would eschew a fillet steak as the flavour seems to me to be inferior to that of rump, but I had heard good reports of the Fox’s steak and I was intrigued.
If this review seems hurried, it is because I have been waiting impatiently to revisit that steak. Words are poor things compared with the physical delights of flavour bursting on the tongue, and it seems to me that the words required to do justice to that piece of meat have yet to be created.
The outside of it was crusty and charred, seasoned to perfection. The knife passed through it to reveal rosiness, juiciness and the promise of succulence. The flavour was sublime, the texture tender, the skill in cooking it to the exact degree requested unquestionable. The chips were lovely as well, big fat brown ones, and the radiccio provided just the right bitter counterpoint to their crispy, starchy blandness.
Compliments proffered to restaurant staff on such (rare) occasions may be met with gratitude, smugness or sometimes just downright apathy. This time they were met with modesty – the cooking was all that could be taken credit for, the raw materials themselves were the star of the show. And the Foxy lady was happy to pass on the details.
The raw material in this case was supplied by Taste Tradition of Thirsk, who produced both the dinky lamb and the Dexter beef which was so outstanding. I have made it my business to find out how I can secure some of that material for myself – if only to ensure that less of it goes to the likes of Messrs Ramsey and his ilk, many miles to the south of where it should be rightfully consumed.
When we finally gain independence here in Yorkshire, we will slap an export levy on this beef and it will end up being smuggled out of the county as top-class contraband. I will personally volunteer to patrol the border and seize any unlawful Taste Tradition product (and eat it). I have no doubt that it would only be a matter of time before right-thinking people from the benighted South would be making applications for citizenship as a result.
But I digress: we concluded with a dense and delicious chocolate tart with espresso cream, a sliver of indulgence that provided a real chocolate hit without being overly sweet.
Now, throughout the whole dinner, there was none of your foams and smears, your plateside fripperies of sprinkles and dashes and dots and dabs of things that take forever to make and are hardly noticed. Things that are credited on the menu and gazed at, bemused, by the diner who didn’t want them there anyway. Neither were there any "foraged" pignuts or weeds or roots, or any of the other stuff that people very sensibly gave up eating a long time ago in favour of proper vegetables that haven’t been peed on by someone’s dog, covered in pesticide by the Council, or just taste plain rank.
Take note - if you want to sit in a "minimalist" dining room that looks and feels like the canteen at Pentonville, be sneered at by a supercilious and ignorant waiter, and pay over the odds for a plate of unidentifiable culinary haberdashery, this is not the place for you.
In brief: this place serves a short menu of food that you really want to eat, in portions which are adequate without being mean or overlarge, and made from ingredients that are superlative. Every course is delicious. The service is unfussy, welcoming and extremely helpful (and my only quibble with it was that I like to keep the bottle of wine on the table rather than having it poured for me, but I am aware that this is a somewhat curmudgeonly criticism). I will conclude by remarking that if I win the Euromillions rollover, I shall be making the team at the F&H an offer they can’t refuse and moving them within walking distance of where I currently reside.
I believe the bill was around the £120 mark (though I should not have asked, being the birthday girl), and included two aperitifs, three courses and a bottle of red wine.
Verdict: value for money - 10/10; service 9/10; quality of food - 10/10
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