It's the '90s!

It's more than just a movie, it's a big night out! (clap clap clap)

Not long ago, I was idly sitting around doing nothing of great importance as I often do, when I had a random flashback to my adolescence. I was in seventh grade, engaged in a conversation with my best friend, Zeke Hertfordshire that was rife with the kind of one upmanship that is the specialty of thirteen year olds. We were debating who was capable of eating more, and it was Zeke's assertion that he successfully consumed two Garbage Burgers at Max and Erma’s that shut me up. At the time, I had never eaten at a Max and Erma’s, and had no idea what a Garbage Burger was, but it sounded sufficiently large and disgusting to successfully rebut my previous argument that involved a gluttonous, glutenous, outing to a KFC Colonel’s Buffet.

My recollection about that friendly, but decidedly childish argument got me thinking about Max and Erma’s. Nearly all of the locations near me closed a few years ago. The only one I could recall seeing in business recently was in the Delta terminal at the Detroit Metro Airport. A little research revealed Max and Erma’s is indeed a broken chain. There are 25 locations in operation, more than half of which are in Ohio. The rest are in surrounding states with the exception of two outposts near Virginia Beach, though like all broken chains, Max and Erma’s empire was once much larger.

Max and Erma's at the airport, because who doesn't love a pre-flight Garbage Burger

Max and Erma’s history began, predictably, with Max and Erma Visconik, who, in 1958, opened a small restaurant bearing their names in a historic building in the German Village neighborhood in  central Columbus, Ohio. The mom and pop operation would continue with a single location until the first in a long series of corporate acquisitions in 1972. That was when Max and Erma sold Max and Erma’s to a pair of businessmen who proceeded to turn the charming neighborhood restaurant into a homogeneous corporate chain. Barry Zacks and Todd Barnum, the new Max and Erma in all but name added a new menu of high end “gourmet” burgers at a time when burgers were nearly exclusively thought of as cheap convenience food. They also implemented the then trendy, and now clichéd “Nail a bunch of random crap to the walls.” theme that included a sundae bar that used a claw foot bathtub as a serving table for some reason.

The chain grew slowly but steadily through the '70s, and '80s, but exploded in popularity in the '90s, the golden age of mid-priced theme restaurants. It was around then that the company briefly experimented with franchising, but ultimately decided to keep all locations corporate owned. The highest location count I can find for the chain is 80 circa 2009, but I suspect Max and Erma’s peaked earlier, and with closer to 100 locations, as they once operated as far from Columbus as North Carolina and Kansas, areas where they have no presence today. Trouble came for the chain amid recession in 2008, when the brand was sold to a Pittsburgh-based private equity firm who, in turn, declared bankruptcy a year later. The Max and Erma’s brand then bounced around between owners shedding locations steadily, often closing multiple locations overnight with no notice to employees. A recent wave of closures in 2017 included the original German Village restaurant.

With my curiosity piqued, I found my way to the nearest Max and Erma’s location that did not require me to buy a plane ticket and stand in a security line to dine there, though my journey to that Max and Erma’s did require me to enter a time portal that took me back to the mid 1990s.

The only Max and Erma’s in Michigan that’s not in an airport is located in Clinton Township in the Partridge Creek Mall. Partridge Creek is an anomaly among Michigan malls for myriad reasons, but chief among them is its lack of indoor corridors. While the configuration is common in warmer climates, an outdoor lifestyle center-style mall stands out in a region that regularly receives heavy snowfall and brutal cold. The mall employs portable propane heaters in the winter to keep shoppers comfortable, but no outdoor climate control was necessary during my late August visit.

I made the trek to Partridge Creek on a Sunday evening, expecting the mall to be largely vacant of both retail tenants and shoppers. Upon parking and entering the mall near its MJR theater, I was surprised to see a healthy, vibrant retail space, full of moderate to high end shops and packed with patrons who seemed to be enjoying both the space and the near perfect weather as they milled through the mall’s roofless corridors. There was even a live band performing on a stage at the mall's center court. I travel frequently and often visit malls and other retail spaces, and I can confidently say that this was the largest crowd I’ve seen at any mall outside of the holiday shopping season since my adolescent years wandering around Fayette Mall in Lexington, Kentucky back when it still had a Natural Wonders and long before it’s food court caused a norovirus outbreak. Since the common areas of the mall were technically outdoors, one out of every twenty or so people was enjoying a cigarette as they shopped. It had been even longer since I had seen anyone smoking in a retail space. The combination of visiting a thriving crowded mall where people could smoke freely made me forget about the lack of a roof over my head and took me right back to every shopping trip to Fayette Mall I was dragged along for in the 1990s, despite the fact that Partridge Creek didn’t open until 2007. The illusion continued when I navigated the open-air labyrinth of shops and found my way to the stained glass and stone facade of Max and Erma’s.

Max and Erma's at Partridge Creek

It was clear Max and Erma’s corporate architecture and interior decor guidelines have not had significant updates since their Clinton-era heyday. The guitars, vintage signs, and giant fiberglass hamburger lining the walls had clearly been dreamed up more than twenty years ago. To complete the illusion, Aerosmith’s “Livin’ on the Edge” played over the PA speakers as the hostess showed me to a booth near the door.

The menu was a single page...

...but double-sided.

At that point, the ‘90s had taken hold. I could only speak in the vernacular of the time. I replied, "Rad!" When my waitress introduced herself and “Awesome!” after she took my order, which included a Garbage Burger, a hamburger I had not discussed with another human since that conversation with Zeke in 1998. 

I don't recall Pink Shirt Guy dancing under the giant burger, but photos don't lie. 

Despite the restaurant being about ¾ full, a surprisingly large crowd for a Sunday evening, my order was delivered to my table in around 10 minutes, and the Garbage Burger stood before my in all of its glory, a marvel that I had subconsciously anticipated beholding for over 20 years. It was impressively presented with the crown of its bun off to the side to showcase the grilled onions and mushrooms, bacon, guacamole and marinara that covered the half pound patty. Steve Urkle would also be glad to know the Garbage Burger was topped with two kinds of cheese. I hadn’t expected the Garbage Burger to be as photogenic as it was, but it was downright gorgeous, and while not as impressive in today’s burger landscape as it might have been during its 1970s debut and 1990’s prime, it’s still unique by virtue of its varied list of toppings. 

Behold the garbagey glory!

I sat the crown of the bun on top of the foodpile below and gave it the customary gentle squish to help ensure the layers adhered. I was immediately greeted by a viridescent annulus of guacamole unnervingly oozing from beneath the bun. I did my best to stuff it back where it came from using the business end of my fork. In an attempt to mitigate the Garbage Burger’s inherent messiness I opted to cut the whole thing in half. I then lifted the less messy appearing half of the refuse sandwich to try a bite. I was greeted with a beefy, mushroomy flavor that completely overwhelmed all of the other toppings, the runniest of which now coated my hands despite my best efforts. I powered through and finished the first half, and then the second, interspersed with bites of fries indistinguishable from their Chili’s or Applebee’s counterparts, all the while struggling to taste the guacamole or marinara that was dripping down my arms and onto my lap. 

Garbage Burger cross section and runoff; Yes I ordered it rare. I like to live dangerously.

Top your sundae from a tub for reasons. 

When my waitress asked if I wanted more fries, I emphatically responded in the affirmative, but waited a few beats before adding a sudden “Psych!” thereby creating an original and hilarious joke. I instead asked to visit the sundae bar. A few minutes later she returned with a square bowl of hand-scooped vanilla ice cream, which I Macarena’d over to the sundae bathtub, which was complete with ceramic tile walls. I loaded up my bowl with Oreo crumbs, whipped cream, hot fudge, and cherries from the sundae bar that was impeccably clean despite a crowd rife with small children. My self-made sundae felt more premium than a similar treat I’d find at a feeding trough buffet thanks to real ice cream forming its fundament instead of the grainy soft serve that’s pushed out the sphincter of an ancient, wheezing machine at my local Ponderosa. 

My sundae, shown here after a couple of bites, as is tradition.

Just as I was finishing, my waitress returned and asked if I wanted another bowl of ice cream. Like the fries, ice cream is unlimited. I politely declined, stating I was working on my beach body so I could look as fit as David Hasslehoff on Baywatch. I then paid my bill, walked out of the restaurant, as Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones” punctuated my exit, and retraced my steps back through the mall to the present. Sadly, I had driven my modern vehicle there that day, but on return trips to Max and Erma’s, you better believe I’ll be driving my teal ‘93 Ford Festiva and wearing the neon red Hot ‘n Now jacket I bought on eBay. I should go back while I still can. 

I wasn't kidding about the jacket. Maybe I'll wear it to Raxgiving dinner. 

Partirdge Creek Mall lost one of its anchors when its Carson’s department store closed last year along with all other Bon-Ton owned stores. It’s Nordstrom is set to close in a few weeks. Without the big stores to anchor them, the mall’s smaller in line stores, including Max and Erma’s, are in danger of closing. It’s as though the 90’s are coming to an end all over again, 20 years later, as the specter of the Retail Apocalypse looms Y2K-like, over another endangered mall and an ever-increasingly broken restaurant chain. Without franchisees to continue the brand after the inevitable demise of this and all other Max and Erma’s locations, they’re likely to disappear completely, just as Don Pablo’s has in the year since my visit to one. If you were a fan of Max and Erma’s back in the 90s, or you’re just curious about this and other vanishing restaurant chains, then they’re worth checking out, especially if you’re up to beating Zeke’s two Garbage Burger record. 

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The Cici's Point

I noticed too late that my previous blog post was published on the one year anniversary of my very first Broken Chains post. That’s right, Broken Chains is officially a year old. In that year, I’ve had a long list of unique experiences, learned a lot about endangered restaurant and retail brands, and traveled untold miles. I like to think I’ve become a better writer as well.

I also take comfort in the thought that this blog is held together by a series of rules and guidelines I’ve imposed on myself that includes my working definition of what a broken chain is:

“A business which, at some point in its history, had multiple, similarly-functioning, physical locations where a customer could purchase goods and/or services which presently has a significantly diminished presence and/or value as a brand compared to the same brand in its heyday.”

When I wrote that definition, I was about to explore Ponderosa, larger than any chain I had previously covered with around 60 locations. Since then, I’ve written posts about diminished chains like Blimpie and Shoney’s that still boast three figure location counts. I’ve also written about chains like Burger Chef and Red Barn that officially have zero remaining locations, but still have unofficial locations open, operating under different names by holdout franchisees.

I consider these defunct on paper but not in practice chains the lower limit of what could be considered a broken chain. The upper limit is trickier to define. I don’t think I’ve covered a chain yet that approaches it. Every restaurant and retail chain goes through ups and downs coinciding with economic and demographic shifts, but at what point does a chain’s presence and brand value decline to the point that it begins to meet my definition of a broken chain? I submit that henceforth the upper limit of what could be considered a broken chain be named the Cici’s Point.

Joe Croce and Mike Cole opened their first pizza joint in Plano, Texas in 1985, using the name Cici’s because both their names started with the letter C. (Contrary to popular belief, they never left the pizza business to open a music factory.) Their takeout pizza business eventually evolved into a buffet restaurant after they began offering a lunch buffet to generate midday foot traffic. The buffet proved more popular than takeout, and franchised Cici’s locations with all day buffets and takeout service began popping up. The chain grew steadily through the ‘90s with Croce as CEO. By the time Joe Croce retired in 2003 and sold his stake in the business to the management team, there were 420 (Nice!) locations in operation.

It was around this time that I discovered Cici’s. I was in high school in Central Kentucky, and was perpetually in search of places where I could stuff my teenage face for very little money. I was working at McDonald’s after school and on weekends, and handed significant portions of my paycheck back to the company on my days off by buying dollar menu double cheeseburgers and McChickens. Likewise, I could often be found at Taco Tico on Sunday afternoons when they sold 49 cent tacos and burritos. When Lexington’s first Cici’s opened at the then-struggling, and now defunct Turfland Mall, it became one of my favorite hangouts.

Access to the buffet cost an astoundingly cheap $3.99, which grew only slightly to five bucks and change once you added a drink and sales tax. For that price, you got unlimited salad, dessert, pasta, and pizza. The pizza crust had an unmistakably cardboardy quality, but you could eat as much as you wanted, and even bad pizza is still pretty good food. I used to devour heaping plates of the flimsy slices. The low price made Cici’s popular with everyone. There’d usually be a pretty diverse crowd eating there, at least more diverse than you’d expect for a pizza buffet with an arcade in the back.

Several more Cici’s locations opened around Lexington, mostly in similarly diminished, and presumably cheap to rent retail spaces, but not long after the 2008 recession, they all closed abruptly. In 2010 Cici’s had 650 locations, and plans were announced to open another 500 by 2020. With less than a year left for them to accomplish this goal, Cici’s Pizza has instead shrunk back down to 423 locations spread across 30 states. However, more than half of those locations are in just two states, Texas and Florida, while ten states are home to three or fewer Cici’s locations. In the past nine years, Cici’s has gone from being the fastest growing pizza chain in the US with a near-national footprint to a regional chain with a few vestigial outposts scattered around the country, ruins of their fleeting empire. Maybe the recession was a factor limiting their growth. Maybe they failed to anticipate the spike in popularity of home food delivery and the decline in the popularity of buffets, or maybe the rate of growth they experienced in the late ‘90s and early ‘00s was simply unsustainable.

Aside from a single meal I had at an Ohio Cici’s a few months before writing my first Broken Chains post, I hadn’t been to Cici’s Pizza in over a decade. While I’m sure there are shining examples of locations that exhibit Cici’s current approach to operation, image, and branding in their core markets, I was more interested in checking out, and geographically closer to, the vestigial locations, long ago isolated by the brand’s retreat. That’s how I ended up at the Goshen, Indiana Cici’s. 

I arrived a few minutes after the restaurant’s 11 AM opening time on a Saturday, and parked out front. The building housing the Cici’s is a two-slot strip mall, and the other slot is occupied by a liquor store. The front facade of the building was visibly dirty, in need of a good pressure washing, and as I was walking from my van to the front door, a large group of other patrons, that seemed to consist mainly of unruly children and an indifferent adult or two, materialized in front of me. 

This was the nicest booth in the place. 

I hope the sneeze guard will keep the falling bits of plaster out of my salad. 

I guarantee these graphics have been up there for at least 15 years. 

As I waited for the group in front of me to conduct their transaction and cacophonously disperse, I examined my surroundings. The dining room had several rows of booths, literally all of which had torn cushions. (I checked!) The L-shaped buffet was nicely stocked, but exposed plaster and a gaping hole were present on the ceiling over the salad bar, as if some fixture had been hastily removed or simply fallen off. Most of the logos and signage on display were just as they were when I first discovered Cici’s at Turfland Mall more than 15 years ago. The newer exploding pizza logos from their website were nowhere to be found. I did not intentionally seek out a dilapidated Cici's location. This is the one that happened to be closest to the route I was planning, but if one Cici's, picked at random is in noticeably rough shape, then there are sure to be others in this condition or worse.

I didn't try the wings. I may have to next time.

When it was my turn to order, I asked for a buffet and drink, and ended up paying over $8. Factoring for inflation, this isn’t a terrible price for a lunch buffet. Unlimited lunchtime pizza is over $10 at my local sit-down Pizza Hut, and there's not nearly as much variety as there is here. At some point since my teenage years, Cici’s had ditched reusable cups and implemented disposable paper ones, presumably to keep costs down. I was a little sad to see visual evidence of them cutting costs, but happy to have a souvenir. The cup was the only time I saw the exploding pizza logo on this visit. 

The elusive exploding pizza logo adorned my cup. 

Small, but reasonably comprehensive salad bar

My strategy at buffets is to start with a salad, mainly to fool myself into thinking I’m eating healthily before loading up my next plate with a pile of carbs. Cici’s current salad bar is on the small side, but seemed generally clean and well-organized. The dressings were in novel containers that reminded me of IHOP syrup dispensers and fit into interlocking slots. Weirdly, there was no grated cheese on the salad bar, but there was a decent selection of vegetables. I loaded my plate with an unintentionally vegan first course and topped it with an acidic Italian dressing. It was perfectly acceptable, but lagged far behind the salads I’ve been able to craft at Rax or Bonanza Steak and BBQ. 

Pizza pile

Having mostly finished my salad, I was ready for pizza. I stacked several slices on my second plate and returned to my table. The deep pan crust slices tasted about the same as they always had, but the thin crust offerings were more airy and chewy than previous experiences with Cici's had trained me to expect. The Cici’s cardboard crust pizza that I had come to know and tolerate was gone and replaced with a more premium tasting product. The toppings and sauce were basically as I remembered them, including the delightful barbecue chicken pizza, but vastly improved by a crust made of honest to goodness flour instead of what I could only assume was sawdust back in the old days. 

I can't think of a brownie I've ever enjoyed more than a Cici's brownie. 

Pleasantly surprised, I worked my way through my second plate, and returned to the buffet for the dessert course. I picked up the brownies and cinnamon rolls with which I would always conclude my adolescent Cici’s meals. I also picked up a slice of the macaroni and cheese pizza, because a wedge of carbohydrates topped with more carbohydrates is decadent to the point that I consider it a dessert, regardless of its sugar content. The soft buttery cinnamon rolls were as they were in my memories, as were the perfectly undercooked brownies. Something was lost in translation with the macaroni and cheese pizza slice though. The fluffier crust overpowered the subtle flavors and textures of the toppings. Macaroni and cheese seems to be the one pizza at Cici’s that works better on the old crust.

In 2016, following Cici’s failure to meet their projected growth goals, and in the midst of an ever-falling location count, the languishing Cici’s brand was acquired by The Arlon Group, an investment group with a subsidiary that owns several Taco Bell, KFC, and Golden Corral franchises. The new parent company’s familiarity with the restaurant industry seems to be benefiting the Cici’s brand. The food’s previous shortcomings have been addressed while the classic Cici’s flavors have, for the most part, been nicely maintained, all without a major inflation of the price. 

While Arlon is doing their part to keep Cici’s running, the indifference of owner of the franchised location I visited was palpable. While the food was great, and the place was reasonably clean, it had clearly fallen into disrepair. As a result, it didn’t seem terribly popular with the locals. Aside from myself and the large group in front of me, maybe two to three other tables were occupied at lunchtime on a Saturday. It seemed as though the owner was caught in a feedback loop of reduced popularity and profits leading to deferral of maintenance and repairs leading to further reductions in popularity leading to further neglect.

Still, the Arlon Group seems willing and able to revitalize the Cici’s brand. By my own definition it's barely a broken chain. With the right strategy, it's a chain that can be mended and revitalized, and that may one day thrive again. Arlon would do well to cut some of the weak links loose from the chain, and recruit and vet some new franchisees to help grow the brand into new markets. My own personal market of Metro Detroit is a vacuum when it comes to all-day pizza buffets, and I'd love to have a Cici's in my neighborhood.

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