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We’ve all heard the stories, the anecdotes, the not-so-secret reputation of Foxfire as the hallowed hunting grounds for the species of woman known as the cougar. On Friday and Saturday evenings, when the torch above the building is ablaze, they come, as if answering a tribal call to battle. They use the cover of night, ceremonially garbed in slinky dresses two sizes too small (but that’s exactly the point), to stalk and pounce on their prey---anyone with a Y-chromosome whose inhibitions have been compromised by the cheap alcohol. Go during dinner, if only to get the club cover charge waived. The servers are as warm, attentive and as professional as those vests would suggest. An appetizer of crispy battered shrimp with vanilla sauce was eerily similar to the Chinese banquet staple of honey-glazed walnut shrimp. A salty, wine-based, mushroom and garlic sauce saved the New York steak, the reduction doing what it was meant to do: acting as the concealing layer of make-up hiding any flaws that might have been present in the meat—an analogy that can be applied to the crowd that congregates at the club every night.