Probably you Justin Timberlake fans (plus the guys who’d follow you anywhere) will haunt Southern Hospitality hoping to spot your crush sipping Mountain Dew in a back booth of this raffish joint he’s fronting. There’s no sign of that hottie tonight as we brave the tussle and eighties disco throbbing full blast. Just a clutch of babes pretending to eat, an army of guys sucking beer from the bottle, and a bartender tossing cocktails. A bouncy hostess in cowboy boots trots us to a table in the rear still sticky from its previous gorge, away from the barside clot but not the roar. Cameras emerge from our pockets and start flashing. We’re immortalizing the nachos—a scary swamp (with pulled pork, $4.95 extra). Surprise: It’s edible, almost delicious. Granted, the corn bread could be sugared plastic. Biscuits taste like salty cardboard, fried green tomatoes aren’t even green. Still, I can’t stop myself from eating the stuck-together onion rings. And the crusty fried chicken is juicy and good. I urge my pals to try the smoked Memphis ribs and skip the dried-out baby backs. Everything comes on a hill of soggy French fries. Cold mac ’n’ cheese is an insult even in junk-food heaven, but a sizzling replacement disappears in minutes. It’s impossible to predict what the kitchen will be doing a week from now. Not this pitiful peach pie, I hope. We leave, exhausted from shouting. Remorse at what I’ve consumed weighs heavily. Or is that just indigestion?