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Under “neighborhood joint,” reference materials list a picture of Domilise’s (or could). At the century-old, cluttered, lowdown poor-boy shop tucked away Uptown, your hands-down order is the wet-dry, battered-and-fried-to-order shrimp, piled onto puffy poor-boy loaves by friendly fry-counter ladies. Peak lunchtime can move slowly along (take a number), and tables are scant.