Frisch's Big Boy: An appreciation

Look, I'm a food snob. I'm mean, that's my job. I review restaurants, and I always think about the food first. Someone asked me recently "How do you know if something tastes good?" Sure, it's subjective. But I think there are some general rules for what constitutes good restaurant food: It's fresh, it's thoughtful, it's unprocessed, it's interesting and vivid in some way.

I love chef-owned restaurants and new ethnic cuisines and mom and pops with home cooking. And I've been happy that in recent years there are enough of those kinds of restaurants to keep me busy, and I can skip reviewing sports bars and sandwich shops.

For instance, it has never occurred to me to review Frisch's.

Though I have eaten there from time to time as long as I've lived here, I haven't lived here since birth, so Frisch's has no special emotional pull for me.

And the ubiquitous Cincinnati restaurant doesn't strive for vividness in its food. It's not cutting edge. It serves food for a common denominator, Big Boys and onion rings, shakes and fish sandwiches. Among foodies, it's denigration to complain that Cincinnatians just stick to their Frisch's.

And yet, Frisch's is a very, very good restaurant.

It was a few months ago that this hit me. I had gone to the Norwood location to try the new peppermint hot fudge sundae cake, and my husband and I had dinner while we were there. I had a meatloaf sandwich on a wonderful toasted bun, a new item brought back by new owners. He had a new sandwich: A Reuben that was good, though not something I would rave about.

Oh, look, there's my bus driver, said my husband, pointing out a man eating with his family. I noticed another family crowded into a booth, the kids talking about school while they colored in place mats and made their parents laugh. And there was a man by himself, reading a book. I love a dinner by myself with a book, but I rarely see anyone else reading at a restaurant. I imagined this was what he did when his wife was out of town, maybe.

And next to us, another family. When Dad ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, his server reminded him that he usually got it with grilled onions and double-checked that he wanted his usual Diet Dr. Pepper.

These people were white and black, young and old. So were the servers.

I got a bowl of vegetable soup from the soup and salad bar. That, I thought, is really decent vegetable soup. And I can have as many bowls as I want.

What a good place for a city to have, I realized in a contradiction to my own snobbery. This place plays an important role in many people's day-to-day life. It's not a fast-food restaurant, but it's affordable. It's not fancy food, but it's made with attention. The servers generally have the most important attribute any server can have: They treat customers like they care.

It's a difficult culture for new owners to step into. Frisch's was sold last year, and a new CEO, Jason Vaughan, started last April. How carefully the new management must have to tiptoe to make changes. When the previous owners switched from Coke to Pepsi, in 2013, the change induced feelings approaching presidential election levels.

I started going to Frisch's from time to time for more people watching.

One evening, I watched a couple of kids doing homework with their mother. One of the girls was probably about 10 and her Mom said she could have a hot fudge sundae cake. When it arrived, she literally stuck the tip of her tongue up out of the side of her mouth and rubbed her hands together, like a cartoon of a kid getting a hot fudge sundae cake.

It took me awhile to realize this, but there is something that goes along with this family atmosphere. There is no television in a Frisch's. People have to talk to each other, look at each other, instead of having their attention hijacked by a screen. There's no Fox News, no CNBC, no sports. I hope that never changes because it's a special attribute to find a haven away from screens.

I ate dinner on a Wednesday night, which the new owners of Frisch's have designated as "brupper" night -- when the breakfast bar is offered all day. I watched a table of four young men devastate that brupper bar. I don't know if they were actually competing to see who could eat the most bacon, but it did seem they got a taller stack each time they went back.

That night I got the turkey dinner, and I can't say I loved it. The turkey seemed kind of processed, the green beans lackluster and I couldn't tell if the mashed potatoes were "real."  But it was $7.99, and it's a hot cooked dinner for people who want that, and for whom a burger and fries will never count. I think it's what the guy with the book was eating.

I went by myself to the location on 5th Street in Covington, where the new owners are trying out a new look. It's sleeker, more modern, more branded. There's a big sign that says "Covington" in red script, so you know where you are. Yes, it's slicker, but the signature service style was the same. A teenager waited on me, and we got into a funny casual conversation about her coworkers that made me laugh. (Don't worry, she didn't say anything mean.)

I chatted with the young woman doing drive-thru orders too. I had the fried cod dinner with onion rings and the salad bar. The cod was perfect: Hot and white inside and crisp on the outside with the signature Frisch's tartar sauce. I'm not crazy about the onion rings, but that's more a matter of style. I like greasy thin-battered rings, while Frisch's makes them with a hard, crunchy coating.

Now, the French fries, those are my style. Not too thick or thin, not crinkled. The new owners have spent a lot of time with every kitchen getting the system working so they're perfect. Thumbs up.

The salad bar is, for me, the saving grace of Frisch's. You can get it as a side item, and compared to getting, say, coleslaw, it's obviously the better deal. Not that you even have to eat a lot; you can just make a healthy salad. Romaine and tomatoes, cucumbers, beets, and carrots is my go-to combo. No artichoke hearts, no avocado, no balsamic dressing, but that's OK. The tomato bisque on the bar that night was good, too; thick and tangy and rich. It's what they're advertising as a comfort meal with a grilled cheese sandwich.

The two young women at the table next to me had about 12 glasses on their table; some had water, some had held Pepsi. The drinks may have changed, but that crushed, easily crunched ice that's a quintessential part of eating at Frisch's hasn't.

Frisch's doesn't fit any one particular restaurant category. Because of the Big Boy, it seems like a burger-and-fries and milkshake kind of place; sort of an expanded version of an old-fashioned soda shop but with turkey dinners and spaghetti and soup of the day. It's more like a bigger, slicker small-town cafe. Or maybe a diner. The pies keep it down-home.

They are not exemplary pies. They were not made by your grandmother or a pastry chef. But they are good pies. Everyone knows about the pumpkin, but the coconut cream pie is also good, and the cherry is full of fruit in a thickened filling. They even have mince pie at Christmas.

And then, there's the Big Boy, the cute little dude rushing around with a burger. He looks a little different, a little less chubby. His overalls are striped. But he's still there with his eagerness to please, and his face, familiar to all Cincinnatians. Familiarity is the key to Frisch's success until now. Anything new, any changes that happen now, will have to respect the things that make Frisch's the restaurant it is. Anything new will have to build on them.