My former co-worker, Melissa, had the theory that one must eat salad for lunch (i.e. slightly starve yourself) or risk falling asleep at work. For those with any kind of work ethic, she has a point. Which means I was just thinking it was a good thing I didn't get the "angel biscuits" with sausage gravy, because my entire body is has just slid into a post-feast slump—payback for consuming one piece of fried chicken, some pulled pork po'boy, cucumber salad, cole slaw and a bit of waffle, plus some pecan pie, from Farmer Brown's new SoMa-Southern, takeout-window offshoot, Little Skillet. All before 1:30 pm. I'm finding writing difficult about now. I think my eyes are crossed.

When I showed up to L.S., it was a scene of SFness: Blue skies and Ritch Street, lined with cool old brick warehouses, full of lunchers on their break eating from take-out boxes on the loading docks of CarbonFlow. (How do takeout boxes affect carbon emissions? I wonder.)

Luckily my job isn't to worry about greenhouse gasses; it's to tell you where to eat next. The Little Skillet verdict? Worth every bit of a not-even-coffee-can-cure-it coma because the food coming out of the little window at Little Skillet is really delicious. (Still, if you should feel the need for an espresso to go with your pecan pie or red velvet cupcake, there's Cento right next door, selling Blue Bottle.) The chicken was crispy and well seasoned and even better with a drizzle of the maple syrup that comes with the Belgian-style waffle; the pulled pork po'boy was more of a (like dripping down your arm) Sloppy Joe; the cucumbers were bright and punchy with slivers of fresh fennel and chilies; the coleslaw was crunchy and creamy and unfussy; and the pecan pie tartlet was done with a perfect pitch. L.S.'s also has very reasonable prices, which shows some Southern hospitality.

Between Little Skillet, Kitchenette and Farm:Table, I've experienced the rare culinary hat trick. Three in a row—all winners. I'm starting to think small is beautiful. It keeps folks from trying too hard—often the demise of so much potential. There's only room to do so much in these tiny spaces. Thank you, Recession.