This tiny, bustling, Rockwellesque feeding station with 20 seats (six of them counter stools) traffics in rib-sticking southern-style comfort food that can’t help but lift your mood. There’s fried chicken flying out of the kitchen at a steady clip, a well-curated collection of hot sauces on the counter (Texas Pete is the one you want), and George Jones and Lefty Frizzell on the sound system. The menu is as small as the space with a great pimento-cheese sandwich on Orwashers bread; a pork-chop sandwich with housemade chowchow; and a meal-size winter-salad special one night, studded with beets, grapefruit, and candied pecans. But the fried chicken is the thing. It’s brined in sweet tea and cooked in a pressure fryer, and it’s pretty much perfect: crunchy, crackling, juicy, relatively greaseless, and full of flavor.