At Bucky’s Sit or Get in Mexico, Becky Steinman serves country fried steak. Not far down Liberty Street, Stacey Conklin’s diner, Stacey’s Place, prefers chicken fried steak.

Steinman’s is tenderized beef, breaded, fried and smothered in cream gravy. But Conklin’s dish is tenderized beef, breaded, fried and smothered … um …

Yes, they sound pretty much the same. But some will argue there are differences beyond the semantics. So just what is the distinction?

“You got me stumped,” Conklin said.

The answer – part of it, anyway – is geographical. Steinman grew up in Nebraska, where many refer to the dish as country fried. Conklin spent 20 years in Texas, where chicken fried is culinary doctrine.

There are sects in the Lone Star state that bicker over nuances such as cast iron skillet or deep fryer. Otherwise, the marriage of breaded, fried beef and peppered white gravy is sanctified, and woe to any who are tempted by the sin of brown gravy.

Texas has a legitimate claim to chicken fried steak. It is said that German settlers in the state’s hill country adapted wiener schnitzel to the new climate. And while the Oxford English Dictionary credits a Colorado restaurant for debuting the name in the early 1900s, the town of Lamesa in Texas also stakes a claim.

The term has spread beyond state borders and is often found elsewhere — as at Stacey’s place — where country fried had been the norm.

Some will say the difference can be found in preparation. Chicken fried steak is often dredged through the same process as Southern fried chicken, hence the name. Country fried can mean a simple dip in flour before being slapped in the pan. Or fryer.

Stacey’s also serves up chicken fried chicken, which is fried chicken treated like chicken fried steak, which is beef treated … best to stick to the matter at hand.

The most often cited distinction is the gravy. Texas chicken fried steak is always served with peppered white gravy. Those who go for country fried steak dollop a version browned from meat drippings and a scorch roux over the dish.

But not necessarily.

At Bucky’s the standard is white gravy, even though they label it as country fried. Steinman allows guests to call for brown gravy, but the restaurant’s co-owner, Brandon Pehle, is adamant.

“White gravy is the way to go,” he said.

Either way, the plate served at Bucky’s is belt-busting bliss. Instead of pounding the cut flat, they tenderize a hefty piece of red meat. It looks rugged, but the meat melts away.

How can one be pedantic with something that satisfying? Let’s just settle the debate this way: The differences that once divided the two dishes appear to be fading into linguistic fusion.