Meat and Three (Or Maybe Four)

If it’s fried, smothered, and would make my cardiologist frown, I’m probably already at the table.

There are fancy restaurants, five-star spots with white linen napkins and balsamic reductions, and I wish them well. Give me a good ol’-fashioned meat-and-three any day and I’ll show you what heaven smells like—hint: it ain’t truffle oil, it’s fried chicken.

Now, I don’t discriminate. Diner? Yes. Greasy spoon? You bet. Upscale joint masquerading as a country kitchen? Sure, I’ll bite. If they serve a proper meat-and-three, I’ll belly up to the table and leave wiping my hands on my jeans.

For those of you not lucky enough to be born below the biscuit line, a meat-and-three is one meat (preferably fried—okay, always fried) and three “vegetables”—and I use that term loosely, as we’ll get to in a moment.

If the fried chicken’s hot, crispy, and doesn’t require a whole glass of sweet tea to choke it down—thank you, Colonnade—I’m in. If the chicken-fried steak at the OK Café is properly smothered in cream gravy and you can cut it with a fork, I’ll see you there before noon. If I want my arteries to throw up the white flag, I can always count on Waffle House to understand that grease is an essential seasoning.

As for sides? Give me collard greens cooked until they surrender, cabbage baptized in bacon grease, green beans so soft your grandma would weep, and mashed potatoes drowning in gravy as God intended. Maybe some pickled beets for color. I might even go crazy and get four sides. After all, this is the South.

Of course, not everybody plays by the same rules. I have one friend who shall remain nameless, but let’s call her Lisa, who has, more than once, walked into a soul-food joint, glanced at the menu, and announced, “I’ll just have the vegetable plate.”

Her idea of veggies?

• Macaroni and cheese

• Mashed potatoes and gravy

• Cornbread dressing

• Pasta salad

Y’all, the only green on her plate was parsley, and that’s just decoration.

I once asked, “Lisa… where are the vegetables on this so-called vegetable plate?”
She looked me dead in the eye and said, “Well, potatoes are a vegetable and pasta salad is a salad. Duh.”

At that point, I knew logic wasn’t on the menu.

Now, I’m not saying I haven’t gone full carb-coma myself. I’ve ordered four sides before and justified it with, “Calories don’t count on Sundays.” That’s the beauty of the meat-and-three: the rules bend as much as you need them to. Remember—meat and three just means a meat and three things that at least started their life in the ground. If you can plant it, grow it, or accidentally hit it with a lawnmower—it counts.

So next time you’re at your favorite greasy spoon, eyeing the menu with tears in your eyes and gravy in your heart, quit overthinking, wipe that drool off your chin, and order the chicken. Or meatloaf. Or fried pork chop. Hell, order all three to make sure you know which one’s the best.

And if it’s summertime in the South and they whisper those magic words—“We’ve got fresh peach cobbler”—add ice cream. And give thanks to the Southern grandmothers who made it possible.

Because around here, The Condition isn’t just something you suffer from—it’s something you serve up with pride.

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