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A sign posted on the wall behind this soul-food joint’s counter reads, “Please refrain from using profane language when in this restaurant; an extra $2 will be added to your bill if profanity is used.” But it’s awfully hard not to yell, “Hot damn!” when a heaping plate of barbecued pork ribs appears, smothered in sticky, tangy sauce and cooked onions, and accompanied by black-eyed peas, collard greens, and a big hunk of buttered cornbread. The waitresses—agreeable, hair-netted types that greet even first-time customers with a smiling “How you been, honey?”—would no doubt forgive you. The place is decidedly unimpressive, with scuffed black and white linoleum floors, Band-Aid colored walls, and no decoration whatsoever. A steady parade of neighborhood regulars—most of whom bypass the few beat-up Formica tables in favor of the dominating counter with its frayed vinyl barstools—keeps the staff busy pulling chicken legs from the bubbling Frialator, slicing pieces of daily-made lemon- and chocolate-iced layer cakes, and pouring endless Half & Halfs—part iced tea, part lemonade. Still, they find time to make sure you’ve cleaned your plate—and encourage you to take home the leftovers when you can’t. — Sarah Gold

Barbecued spareribs, $9; fried chicken, $8.50