Little Respect For The Big Boy

High school jobs are interesting to say the least. 

My first gig was cooking steaks for my Grandpa’s place, Pelle’s Cafe in Silver Grove. I still remember my Uncle Joey teaching me the different ways to cook the steak (medium, rare, etc.) by pressing my hand on his palm. His steak nights were a community staple. Beyond getting enough food to feed an army for $8, it was the big smiles and belly laughs that a trip to Pelle’s brought its patrons. Old vets swapping war stories, regulars ragging on each other, and my extended family coming together to break bread. It was intoxicating. 

After a few years, we decided to stop doing the steak nights and I decided it was time for the big leagues. I took my talents to The Big Boy. That’s right. Frisch’s. I had a few friends working there at the time who vouched for me, and I was in. They put me on the line as a cook and I couldn’t have been happier. Right away I was the young kid in a kitchen full of men who were eager to battle test me. 

As silly as it sounds, it may have been the closest I ever came to a military experience. Everything was regimented, and the grunts (me) had to earn their place by doing the grunt work. You never forget the first time you scold your arm with popping grease while cleaning out a deep fryer. The pride the lead cooks took in keeping the space ship-shape and having the lowest possible drive-thru times convinced me to take things seriously, and it felt good. 

 We had a guy named Steve who worked about as many overtime hours as he could to provide for his wife and daughter. He had a felony that he was working to get etched from his record, but in the meantime, Frisch’s was one of the few places willing to give someone in his position a second chance. He detested University of Kentucky basketball – so naturally we had a ball giving him a hard time when Kentucky won the national title in 2012. He took it in stride and claimed his Cincinnati Bearcats had it in the bag next year. His work ethic directly impacts the way I think about issues like raising the minimum wage to this day. That man was the definition of underpaid.

A few months ago, rumors started swirling that Frisch’s may be getting ready to call it quits after nearly a century of service. I thought of Steve. Not so much Steve himself, but the archetype of Steve. The modern-day Steve. What would become of them?

Anyone who has followed the Frisch’s saga to any degree knows they have been bought and sold more in the last decade than they have in their first 60 years combined. Private equity conglomerates looked to squeeze the Frisch’s name equity to the last drop, and it looks like they’ve succeeded. Personally, I hate it. This buying and selling began when I was still there. I remember it vividly. The new group who took over switched from Coke to Pepsi products, immediately proving their tone deaf disposition toward the Frisch’s faithful.

From there, things only got worse. By the time I graduated college at Northern, I couldn’t justify visiting one of my favorite restaurants because of the skyrocketing prices and diminished quality. 2020 only expedited the fall off. We stopped going there for our annual Father’s Day dinner, a tradition that has fallen by the wayside since. 

The hardest part for me is knowing that we will likely never see a restaurant like Frisch’s again. They will become bygone relics of generations gone by that I will swear to my future children had the best cheeseburger in town. I think if this journal can encourage you to do anything, it would be to enjoy the soulful businesses we have left. Support them and make memories in them. Don’t let them go down without a fight. They may have little respect for the Big Boy, but we know better.