ONE OF THE THINGS I miss most about my home in South Carolina is the food. In my three years in Cambridge, I have managed to acclimate myself to the snow, Boston drivers, and Hare Krishnas. But despite the wealth of culinary choices the area offers, I cannot get a decent plate of chitlins (the correct pronunciation of chitterlings) to save my life. Eating as ritual does not exist here as it did at home. Everyday, I used to stop of at my Aunt Bessie's house for supper. Where I live lunch does not exist as a meal. The word "lunch" itself is too short to signify a substantial meal. It's only one syllable and is often preceeded by words like "quick," "express," or "lite." Those three words, thankfully, have noplace in Southern eating.

In the South, dinner is the midday meal.It fulfills all of the promise lunch tries todeny. It is truly a meal--not just a sandwich(which falls under the category of between-mealsnacks known as "knick-knacks"), a salad or abagel. Dinner involves sitting down and eatingsubstantial food off of real plates. There is norush.

By the same token, supper takes us touncharted gastronomic territory. When I thinkabout the food I miss from home; I recall imagesof my daily suppers at Aunt Bessie's house. Ifonly in my mind, I can see the hot cornbread or"mixed" bread, rice and gravy, greens of all kinds(usually collard, mustard or turnip), friedchicken and, yes, chitlins.

The meal itself involves a certain amount ofprocedural behavior. For example, Aunt Bessiewould preface each dinner by saying, "I don't havethat much, but you're welcome to what's here."That meant that there was more food than I couldever hope to consume, so I might as well eat untilmy cheeks swelled and closed up my eyes. All thewhile, my Uncle John (yes, I'm named after him)would spur me on to new heights of gluttony bycheering, "Eat!" every 15 minutes or so. He had away of saying it in a high-pitched half screamtypical of Southern exclamation which often scaredthe hell out of new supper guests. Aunt Bessie, onthe other hand, would merely say, "I like to seemy boy eat." Yes, I was terribly spoiled, but itwas a job that had to be done.

During supper, Aunt Bessie would continuallyask me if I wanted anything. According to custom,I always had to refuse twice--politely--beforeaccepting. Since we were family, Aunt Bessieusually skipped the three offer pas-de-deux andproceeded to reload my plate upon my firstrefusal. These reinforcements often includedsurprises like potato salad, pound cake, homemadeice cream and sweet potato pie. Amazingly, I wasalways able to finish off whatever was given tome. I guess she had a way of being able to discernexactly when I was about to burst, a term I don'tuse lightly.

The only place I've have been able toapproximate that same feeling since I've been inthe Northeast has been at Bob the Chef's, inBoston. As the T-shirts worn by the staff read, itis truly a "Soul Supreme."

The Columbus Avenue Restaurant has been a soulfood tradition for more than 35 years. RobertMorgan, the one and only "Bob the Chef," beganselling food during the late 1950s at Mud Kelly'sBig "M" nightclub. The restaurant has been at itscurrent address since 1968.

"Bob's has a welcoming atmosphere that's boundto make anyone feel at home, regardless ofbackground. The main dining area is arrayed withbooths with vinyl seats and placemats that beg thefollowing consideration: "Please refrain FromCutting Our Seats With Any Sharp Objects. It HasBecome a Very Disturbing Situation. Thank You,Management."

Although I can understand the owner's concern,I actually liked the rip that adorned the seat inmy booth. It reminded me of the worn butcomfortable kitchen seats on which I spent many anhour Aunt Bessie's table. And I became even moredistressed when I found out that all of the boothsare being replaced in a matter of weeks.

Nonetheless, Bob the Chef's retains the feel ofeating at home among family despite its very"dineresque" appearance. You can see the foodbeing prepared and served from behind a largecounter along one side of the restaurant.Everyone, from the customers to the staff, hastime to talk for awhile.

And the food? Well, although I'll try to relatemy impressions, it is must be experienced to beappreciated. The origins of the term "soul food"are a bit murky. The best explanation I've heardso far is one that we use at home: "It's bad forthe heart, but good for the soul." After one mealat Bob the Chefs, I can certainly say that my soulwas rested.

The menu includes all the favorites from home,including BBQ spareribs,B-9Soul corner: