Chapter Four - The Buffet & Sacred Ketchup Ritual

CHAPTER FOUR

The Buffet & Sacred Ketchup Ritual

AH, FRISCH’S BIG Boy. A Midwestern temple of comfort food and childhood nostalgia. There’s something about walking up to a building and being greeted by that towering, grinning statue of Big Boy himself, burger in hand, apron waving like a flag of delicious surrender. You just know you’re about to eat well.

Little JJ treated Big Boy like hallowed ground.
The order? Always the same: mac and cheese with ketchup.

Yes, you read that right. Ketchup. On mac and cheese. A culinary decision that some might call reckless. I call it inspired. I respected the boldness then; I still respect it now. I’ve even caught myself thinking: If I walked into Big Boy tomorrow, would I do it again? You bet I would.

But the real magic of Big Boy wasn’t just the menu. It was the breakfast buffet. The thing of legends.
But only if you got there early enough.

Half a dozen times in my life, I cracked the code. Sometimes after church. Sometimes after two hours of sleep and a night of mischief with friends. And there was no better reward than loading up a plate under the warm yellow glow of the buffet lamps.
Biscuits. Bacon. Scrambled eggs. Sausage gravy that deserved an award. Pancakes. Syrup. Repeat.

The vibe was unmatchable: part diner, part time machine. Big Boy froze a moment of Americana and let you sit inside it for a while.

The next time I pass by that statue, I know what I’m ordering. One more plate of mac and cheese with ketchup. Not weird. Just legendary.