Closing the Doors: The Final Moments of Anderson Frisch’s

A formidable chill nipped at my face as I hurried from my car toward the Anderson Frisch’s entrance. My cold tolerance was still in training, and late autumn wasn’t helping. Out of habit, I glanced through the front window to gauge the crowd. Only a few faint silhouettes moved behind the glare—far from the usual bustle. On a day like this, I’d expected something more. Even the parking lot, with its empty spaces, felt strangely quiet.

As I approached the first set of doors, two customers walked out in silence. The scene felt familiar. I held the door open for them—a small courtesy I’d performed countless times in that same spot over the years. There was always someone leaving as I arrived, just as someone else would arrive as I left—a rhythm that had pulsed through this place for decades. Even now, in its final moments, that rhythm still flickered.

Inside, a server spotted me standing alone in the lobby. She made eye contact and raised one finger in the air, silently asking if I was dining alone. I swung my camera from my shoulder, hoping the gesture would signal that I wasn’t there to eat. Not this time. And never again, it seemed.

I glanced at my watch: 2:15 PM. In just 45 minutes, the Anderson Frisch’s would close its doors for good, ending over 60 years of service to the community. These were its final moments.

A Final Farewell to Anderson Frisch’s

If you’re looking for a history lesson, you won’t find it here. I won’t bore you with dates and facts, and I won’t pretend to understand what a private equity firm does or try to explain why the stoves won’t fire up tomorrow morning. You only need to know they won’t. If you’re from the area, you already know some version of the story. If you’re not, the details probably don’t matter much anyway.

For context, though, the original carhop-style Forestville Frisch’s opened in the late 1950s or early 1960s, in a building set closer to the street. By the 1980s, it was replaced by the current location, which has been a landmark on Beechmont ever since—a place where generations came for breakfast, burgers, and tartar sauce.

It was also a place where people built their lives—some spending decades working under its roof. You’ll meet a few of them shortly.

Finding Miller

“Is Miller here?” I asked. Katie Miller, who goes by Miller, connected with me on Facebook weeks earlier, after a post about the closing started a conversation. The Facebook rumor mills were, as usual, unreliable—churning out false closing dates and even a glimmer of misplaced hope that the restaurant might survive. Miller, a longtime employee, became my inside source, helping me get the story straight.

When the employee walked back to the kitchen to locate Miller, I was struck by how business-as-usual the place seemed. Only three or four tables were in use. At one, a mother and her children shared what would be their final hot fudge cake at that location. Another couple sat quietly, enjoying a simple lunch. A group of family members, there to support one of the employees, laughed with the crew from their seats at the bar.

For all the significance of the moment building up, it truly felt like just another day. The familiar clatter of plates and cups filled the air, interrupted occasionally by stolen hugs exchanged in the kitchen.

My Own Memory

As I waited for Miller, I stole a moment of my own. I took a picture of the table where my wife and I had sat 15 years earlier, after a sonogram revealed our first child would be a little girl. We’d eaten lunch there, lost in the wonder of who she might grow up to be. After paying the check, we’d gone to Target and filled our cart with pink and purple onesies and pajamas.

We were far from regulars—especially since COVID—but I’d been here enough over the years to recognize Miller the moment they came out of the kitchen. Miller is one of those servers you cross your fingers for in the lobby—always attentive, friendly, and genuinely happy in their work.

Though not on shift, Miller had come in to support the staff and meet with me. We found a table near the empty breakfast bar and started to talk, but before we could get far, a customer approached, asking for a group photo of the employees in front of the Forestville mural.

Most of the staff joined in, though not all. From a distance, I captured a photo of the customer taking the picture.

Her name was Carrie Russell. She’d been coming to Anderson Frisch’s since childhood and spoke with the polite nostalgia of someone bidding farewell to an old friend. She reminisced about the wooden dividers that could turn large tables into smaller ones and laughed as she recalled how her mother, a non-smoker, always chose the smoking section, saying she’d rather deal with smoke than noisy kids.

Reflections with Miller

After the photo, Miller and I sat back down. Reflecting on their 17 years at Anderson Frisch’s, Miller said, “I pretty much grew up here. This was my first job. I tried venturing out, but I just like it here. It’s my second home. I see these people more than I see my own family.”

As much as the job had taught Miller about life and helped them grow, it was dealing with so many different people that had the greatest impact. “I’ve got a stronger backbone dealing with the public,” Miller said with a small laugh.

Still, it’s the customers Miller said they would miss the most. Among them were Jim and Marilyn, a couple Miller had served since starting in 2007. “They’re the kindest people I’ve ever met. Marilyn would give you the shirt off her back. They sit in the back corner every Wednesday and Friday. I’m going to miss that for sure,” Miller said, gesturing toward their usual spot, now empty.

Miller’s most memorable encounter, however, came on the eve of the COVID shutdown. A regular customer, sensing their apprehension, quietly handed them a $500 check along with a $20 tip. “I’ll never forget that,” Miller said softly. “I just sobbed after that.”

In the weeks leading up to the closure, Miller had been collecting phone numbers from regulars, ensuring they could stay in touch even after the restaurant’s doors closed for good. While the loss of the Anderson location stings, Miller won’t be going far—they’ll be transferring to the Eastgate Frisch’s, hopeful that some familiar faces will make the trip a little further east.

Lauren Erickson, a 25-year veteran of Frisch’s, joined us briefly at the table. Tears welled up as she hugged Miller. When asked which customers she’ll miss the most, she replied simply, “All of them.”

An Old Friend Returns

The energy in the room shifted when Wanda Crawford arrived. She had retired two years ago after 44 years with Frisch’s, starting in Bethel in 1979. Wanda’s presence brought a quiet strength to the room, like someone who had seen and weathered it all.

She recalled the day the original Anderson location was torn down. “After we moved the big mixer over to the new building, Mr. Kelly told us to go home. By the time I came back in the morning, the old building was gone.” Wanda estimated it had been in 1983 or 1984.

Wanda’s tears came quickly, and Miller broke the ice. “We’ve all gone through a lot working here. The best and worst times of our lives happened in this building.”

“We all stuck together through thick and thin,” Wanda said, wiping her eyes. “You think some of the big shots would come out here,” she added, frustrated. She looked around the room absent of any corporate presence.

Still, Wanda shared fond memories, proudly boasting about the Frisch’s trinkets she’d collected over the years—everything from ashtrays to children’s toys. Even museums, she said with pride, had been asking her for donations.

Eventually, Wanda left the table to help her old crew clean up one final time, despite having been off the clock for two years. Her time was brief, though. “I have Euchre tonight,” I heard her say.

The Final Table

By then, only two customers remained, quietly packing up their things and heading to the register. I snapped a picture of their table—the last meal—and hurried to capture them paying the final check.

Nicole Korey and Sarah Korey hadn’t known the restaurant was closing. They’d heard the rumors but hadn’t expected to walk in during the final hour, let alone be the last customers. Sarah ordered breakfast, and Nicole had a Big Boy. Half of her sandwich was now tucked into a plastic container, along with a small cup of tartar sauce.

They seemed surprised and saddened to learn they’d closed out the restaurant’s 60 year history. Reflecting on the moment, Nicole shared her thoughts: “When I first heard it was shutting down I couldn’t believe it because it had been here so long. But that’s just the way the world works.”

The last moments of a place like this aren’t just about the people who passed through but the ones who kept it running every day. Helen Jackson, the most senior staff member, was one of them.

She had spent 30 years at Beechmont Frisch’s—an entire career within these walls. When I asked how she felt, she hesitated. “I don’t know how I feel,” she said quickly. “It feels like a normal day…a normal shift. I have no feelings right now. I don’t know why.”

She chuckled, but then her smile faded. Glancing around the room, she hesitated. “Let’s just say I haven’t been able to sleep,” she said with a voice that climbed out from some place deeper.

After a moment, Helen turned back to work, as if to escape the weight of her thoughts, clearing the final table. I watched quietly as she dumped the food scraps into the trash, then gave the table one last careful wipe down. After decades of service and millions served, it all ended right there—in silence and routine.

What do you see in Helen’s face during that moment? Sadness? Anger? Fear? Defiance? I didn’t ask. I just took the picture.

The energy in the restaurant shifted again, this time to something quieter, more intimate. I felt my presence was intruding, keeping the workers from fully letting go. That was my cue to leave and give them their space.

As I walked out, I didn’t need to hold the doors open for anyone. They swung closed on their own. The rhythm was broken.

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