It’s 11:30 a.m. on a Sunday and you enter a low-slung building to a crowded waiting area, adorned with mismatched frames displaying veterans gone by. After elbowing past the vinyl bar stools, you’re seated at a slightly wobbly table in a chair that was probably pulled from a community center closet. The walls are sepia toned, the air smells like bacon grease, and you’re in for good ole country cookin’ surrounded by fading ephemera.