Flour Power

Any place that calls itself The Big Biscuit better live up to its name. And in terms of size, this Independence restaurant certainly delivers: The biscuits at The Big Biscuit are more than 4 inches across and nearly 2 inches high.

They’re bigger — but they could be better. These biscuits are crumbly, breadlike affairs, a shade too dry and certainly not flaky. Served alongside a Popeye Omelette of spinach, mushrooms, and cheese ($6.25), The Big Biscuit’s big ol’ biscuit practically overwhelmed my plate. It was difficult to butter (not with a pat of the real stuff — from cows — but with the contents of a little plastic tub of faux-butter “spread”), and its texture was somewhere between cornbread and a day-old piece of cake.

The problem with trying to serve fresh, hot biscuits is just that: They have to be fresh and hot. Fresh biscuits are labor-intensive, they don’t hold well for long (unlike cinnamon rolls, which can stay moist and flaky for hours), and they can’t be microwaved without turning into cement. Any restaurant that serves them deserves points just for the effort — and if the baked goods at this homestyle restaurant seem a little firmer than Grandma’s version, well, that’s just the way The Big Biscuit crumbles.

Dry or moist, after all, a biscuit is a biscuit. This form of bread got its name — originally the Latin “biscoctus” or the 16th-century English “biskit,” meaning twice-baked — because it was designed to be carried on trips; unlike bread, a biscuit would last longer than a few days. “Any crisp, dry flat bread (our crackers) of England or France is still a biscuit,” writes Bill Neal in Southern Cooking. “Of all the modern forms of the southern biscuit, the beaten biscuit most nearly resembles its hard-baked ancestors. Stored in airtight tins, it lasts for weeks.”

Luckily for modern eaters, the biscuits at an “upscale diner” — which is what The Big Biscuit’s owner, Chicago native Dan Gerson, calls his two-month-old restaurant — don’t have to be travel-ready hardtack. The biscuit’s breadlike consistency is a plus when it’s the base for a breakfast sandwich, such as the hearty tenderloin-and-cheese number ($4.75, served with a big portion of fried potatoes) or, better yet, under a steaming blanket of sausage gravy. The Big Biscuit’s Country Benedict ($5.50) offers up a split biscuit, both sides heaped with a sausage patty, scrambled eggs, and a lavish dollop of creamy sausage gravy; served with fried potatoes, it was so rib-sticking that I wanted to put down my napkin (paper, in this case) and go plow the back 40.

It was only when The Big Biscuit’s namesake dish was the added attraction on a plate of ham and eggs ($5.95) or a chili-and-cheddar omelette ($5.95) that I wished for a more moist, flaky biscuit, like the sweet drop version at the Bristol or the raised versions served up by such corporate joints as Popeye’s Fried Chicken or a Bob Evans Restaurant.

And once I ventured away from the breakfast offerings, I was underwhelmed by a couple of The Big Biscuit’s lunch items, such as the Sammy Burger ($5.95), an overcooked burger topped off with surprisingly tasteless slices of American and Swiss cheese, two pieces of crisp bacon, and a splash of “special sauce” (a concoction of honey-mustard dressing with something spicy and peppery). On another visit, however, my normally picky goddaughter gobbled up the fried chicken tenders (there’s a kids’ menu with a handful of items, none over three bucks), although she sniffed at the tangy special sauce and grabbed the ketchup bottle instead. And a friend of mine went crazy for the hot and crispy fried chicken sandwich ($5.95), claiming it was one of the best things he had ever eaten.

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There must be some good fried-chicken karma at this location. Long before Gerson gutted the one-story building and revamped it as the squeaky clean Big Biscuit, the spot enjoyed a long life as a pub-style joint called the Red Mule Inn, where the Stephenson family (whose namesake orchard is right across the highway) offered such old-fashioned comfort foods as chicken and cinnamon rolls.

On Sundays, Gerson serves up his own fried chicken dinner too: three pieces and two side dishes for $7.95. It’s one of the Biscuit’s blue plate specials, which are available each day until the restaurant closes at 2:30 p.m. The very idea of a “blue plate” special (the term dates back to the mid-1920s and usually refers to a complete dinner — a meat, a vegetable, and a roll — offered at a special price and presented on one plate) is as much a throwback as the Hit Parade music playing in the background. Sure, the mounted TV sets in two of the dining rooms may be silently tuned to the latest sports news or an episode of the soap opera Passions, but the singing voices coming out of the speakers belong to Patti Page, Eddie Fisher, Kitty Kallen, and Bobby Darin.

When Patti Page first recorded “(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window,” rare was the American restaurant that didn’t serve such dishes as a hot beef sandwich or chicken and dumplings. At The Big Biscuit, the hot beef sandwich ($5.75) in a thick gravy is a standard item and the chicken and dumplings ($5.25) is the Monday blue plate special.

It’s not all flashback fare, though. The Big Salad ($6.95) has a slab of tuna steak, dried cranberries, crumbled blue cheese, and croutons over mixed greens, and weight watchers can opt for sliced fresh tomatoes ($1.25) instead of crispy crinkle-cut fries or juicy onion rings. But why? Fries and rings are just the right accompaniment, fattening or not, for a grilled meat loaf sandwich ($5.50) or a bowl of chili ($3.75).

The place is sunny and spic-and-span, with blonde wood floors, cozy booths, and an assortment of framed pictures and posters (John Travolta in Grease; a vintage shot of Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack buddies in front of the old Sands hotel) that, along with those ’50s song hits, give the place an Eisenhower-era flavor. The wait staff could use some Eisenhower-era servers, because on three visits, only the token veteran waitress (a woman over 30) had a clue what she was doing. The younger servers, who looked perky enough in their red aprons and white T-shirts, had the vaguest knowledge of the menu. On my second visit, I ordered the Sammy Burger and the teenage waitress looked at me with a glazed expression and asked, “What’s a Sammy Burger?” I pointed it out to her on the menu (it was right above the Elvis Burger), and she shook her head in amazement, as if I had penciled it in myself. Later, she brought out the sandwiches and announced, “The fries on this plate are a little burnt, so we’re making y’all some more.” The fries weren’t burnt, just a shade more golden and crispy than usual. Later she arrived with two more plates of fries, which weren’t as good as the “burnt” ones.

But a diner, upscale or downscale, isn’t supposed to be perfect. And The Big Biscuit doesn’t pretend to be anything but a decent, friendly place to get a hearty (and reasonably priced) breakfast or lunch. There’s nothing too fancy on the menu, nothing too expensive. And no one bats an eyelash if you decide to mix and match your meals. On one breakfast visit with newscaster Walt Bodine, he had pancakes and I had eggs — but we both decided to finish with a thick, luscious chocolate malt ($3). Another time, I finished off that mountainous Country Benedict by gobbling up a few bites of the hot, gooey blackberry cobbler ($2.75) that my friend Bob was practically inhaling — it isn’t made on the premises, but it really tastes homemade, especially when topped with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream.

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Almost everything on this restaurant’s menu is big. And after a few trips out to Independence, so was I. That’s when I had to call it quits: Any more visits to this newfangled diner and y’all would be calling me The Big Biscuit.

The Big Biscuit

16506 E. 40 Highway, Independence, 816-478-6958

Hours: Mon.-Sat. 6:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m.; Sun. 7:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m.