You give your order to a man at a back-corner table. He writes it on a white paper sack, which he plops on an adjacent counter. You help yourself to a soft drink from a cooler or the soda fountain and browse the seafood market in back or the shelves of spice mixes and locally made cane syrup. Then you pick up that same sack, now filled with fresh fried seafood, or perhaps a po’boy, and eat at a paper-towels-equipped table against the opposite wall. It doesn’t get any more down-home. Or delicious.