Gotta hand it to New Yorkers. No one does sneering condescension quite like they do.

Exhibit A: An insufferable piece in last Friday’s New Yorker headlined, “Chick-fil-A’s Creepy Infiltration of New York City.”

Yep, the opening of Manhattan’s fourth Chick-fil-A location had a columnist for the pompous publication fuming.

Why? Well, because the founders of the chain are - sitting down? - Christian. Oh, and Southern. 

In other words, deplorables.

“…the brand’s arrival here feels like an infiltration, in no small part because of its pervasive Christian traditionalism,” sniffed Dan Piepenbring. “Its headquarters, in Atlanta, are adorned with Bible verses and a statue of Jesus washing a disciple’s feet. Its stores close on Sundays.”

Horrors. The chain is headquartered in Georgia. And the building houses a statue of that creepy dude, Jesus. 

Plus, the company observes the sabbath by closing on Sundays. What are they, nuts? 

This intense loathing for Chick-fil-A by some haughty New York elites seems mostly rooted in the fact that the CEO doesn’t support gay marriage. 

You know, just like the Pope.

Yet it’s worth noting that after the 2016 shootings in a gay nightclub in Orlando that left 49 people dead, a nearby Chick-fil-A opened on a Sunday to give food to emergency responders and folks who turned out for an emergency blood drive.

Almost as if the chain took that “love thy neighbor” commandment seriously.

Can you imagine this same magazine publishing such snotty parochial drivel about a Middle Eastern restaurant that closed for Islamic holy days or that gave its workers time to pray during the day?

Of course you can’t. Because progressives always seem to reserve their most vile bile for observant Christians.

Frankly, I feel a tad hypocritical defending Chick-fil-A. I’m not a fan of national chains and I’ve lamented the loss of small family-owned restaurants.

But as fast food joints go, none can compare to Chick-fil-A. 

The chicken is delicious. And the help is outstanding. 

Always. Everywhere.

Here’s an example: A couple of years ago we were putting together our modest version of the lavish tailgates that Ole Miss fans are famous for in the university's legendary Grove.

(If you haven’t been to The Grove on a football Saturday, you should go. Heck, even the New York Times was impressed by what's been called the “holy grail of tailgating”.)

Like almost everyone else in the mob of tens of thousands of football fans, we’d ordered trays from Chick-fil-A to supplement our homemade offerings. Hey, throw those chicken nuggets on a silver platter and they fit right in with the rest of the fare. And everybody loves them.

We’d ordered an assortment in advance. We picked it up at the pre-arranged time. And our tailgate was all laid out when my cell phone rang.

On the other end was an apologetic Chick-fil-A employee telling me that they’d left chicken wraps off of our trays.

“No problem,” I said, noting that we had an abundance of food.

“It was our mistake,” she insisted. “We’re bringing it to you.”

And within an hour, a Chick-fil-A worker miraculously fought her way through game-day traffic and throngs of fans to our little tent where she handed me our missing items.

“I can’t thank you enough.” I gasped.

“My pleasure,” she said with a grin.

The New Yorker is right. This sort of Southern courtesy probably is out of place in Manhattan.

No wonder ordinary folks like it so much.