I’m pretty sure there was a time when everyone born in the South, regardless of what side of the tracks they were born on, had a memory of at least one Sunday spent in front of a plate like this. Fried chicken, field peas, fried okra, and a corn muffin slathered in butter. If ever there was a quintessential Southern dish, this one would certainly qualify. But alas, I’m also pretty sure that now, in the age of McDonald’s and Jack in the Box and cable television, that we don’t all share that experience any longer. Too bad. I truly believe food binds us in a way nothing else does. I trusted that Christina’s would be able to deliver on the fried chicken, and I was right. I got there right before the lunch hour started and had to wait a few minutes, but that just meant my chicken was right out of the fryer when the server set it down in front of me. She also identified a lot of the customers that came in after me by name, so I guess they have a lot of lunch time regulars there. Understandable. I saw an old guy going hard at a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and I think that might be the direction I go next time I visit Christina’s.