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Celebration feels like a vacation. It has the smell of a hunting lodge, with lots of wood, stone and simple copper-topped tables. There are no appetizers, so decisions are focused. There are no reservations. Just rib-sticking meals you used to get at your great aunt's house before she discovered Emeril and sank your inheritance into a Viking range. You can even get seconds if you want them. Salads come in big bowls with tongs and an armada of croutons. Mashed potatoes, cheesed-out broccoli and squash come, too, plus rolls with a bowl of butter. Dessert? Berry pies and coconut cream are waiting to inflate your spare all-season radial. Take a whiff and wolf down.