That white house with deep porches and old shade trees sat at the end of a gravel-edged lot, and the smell of fried chicken and yeast rolls hit me before I even reached the door.
A friend had described this Georgia spot as the kind of place where you eat lunch inside somebody’s great-grandmother’s house, and that sounded good enough for a drive south of the city.
I went on a weekday morning, and by noon the parking area was filling fast and the porch had people waiting with easy conversation…