Adam Sappington’s warm, Deep South-by-way-of-Montavilla pork palace has earned a pack of slavering fans since opening in 2007, much thanks to the butchery-happy, overall-sportin’ chef’s “The Whole Hog” plate. It fairly groans with a greatest-hits trio of Sweet Briar Farms pig bits (crisp rolled belly, tender smoked shoulder and an epic brined chop). The Hog also comes atop a mountain of grits, but don’t skimp on the other sides. You deserve a Paul Bunyan-sized helping of smashed spuds drowned in bacon gravy or a creamy vat of old-school green-bean casserole, too. While the Cat’s dry halibut and lackluster pasta dishes have disappointed in the past, if it once squealed, clucked or mooed, order it immediately. And nab a whiskey or bourbon from the friendly bar while you’re at it.
Order this: Moist cast-iron skillet-fried chicken. Now the Cat serves it with toasted pecan spoonbread at brunch every single day.
Best deal: The Whole Hog lives up to its oinking, fat-coma-inducing name.
I’ll pass: Until pigs start naturally producing pasta somewhere in their bodies for Sappington to harvest, skip the odd noodle dishes.