If you grew up in the Bay Area suburbs in the 1990s, you probably remember Fresh Choice.
I do. It was my favorite restaurant in the world. It was my go-to birthday meal for much of my childhood. Fairfield didn’t have many places that felt opulent, but walking into Fresh Choice made me feel like a goddamn Tudor.
My hometown Fresh Choice was sleek white with a long salad bar at the front. I still remember the warmth of the damp beige trays stacked at the head of the salad bar. You’d grab one and a thick plate and start piling on the veggies (but not too many, since a world of carbs is ahead of you). At the end of the salad bar was a puddle of dressings that inevitably spilled everywhere no matter how carefully you scooped, and the cashier. My dad presented a coupon clipped from a mailer (remember that?) and we were off to Bottomless Soups.
It wasn’t until I grew up that I learned that Fresh Choice, which felt as ubiquitous as nearby McDonald’s, was a short-lived Bay Area phenomenon. The chain was founded in Sunnyvale and, despite my staunch patronage as a 10-year-old, never really became a financial sensation.
The first Fresh Choice opened in 1986 in the Cala shopping center. It dawned in the age of health food and jazzercise. Unlike other buffets, Fresh Choice didn’t serve heavy proteins. There was the marquee salad bar, low-fat soups, muffins, and a pasta station with a handful of pasta types and sauces. “This type of food attracts wealthy yuppies and aging baby boomers who swear to eliminate meat and fat from their diets,” restaurant analysts told the Oakland Tribune in 1993.
The original Sunnyvale Fresh Choice was a hit, and there were regular lines out the door for main meals. Exuberant about their concept, the team behind Fresh Choice embarked on the rapid expansion that would soon become their downfall. It opened more than two dozen new stores across Northern California and even had a public stock offering in the early 1990s. In 1993, it took the $20 million it had raised and invested it in expanding into the Seattle and Dallas markets.
“These cities promise a lot of ‘high-tech types’ of customers who serve Fresh Choice restaurants in the Bay Area,” the Tribune wrote at the time.
A Bay Area retail analyst was alerted to his concerns. “I’m just wondering, once you’ve satiated the West Coast, will people in the Midwest be eating at a salad bar?” Tom Mudge said of the Fresno Bee. “I’m just not convinced. It seems more geared towards the granola crowd.”
There was at least some truth to Mudge’s caution. In 1995 the up-and-coming restaurant chain experienced the first closures; That year, it announced that 10 Fresh Choice locations would be permanently closing. To combat its struggles, it introduced new products, like the “Reggae Chicken Salad,” which I didn’t eat or clock as culturally questionable, and … more colors.
“We’re adding a lot more fun and more color,” President Bob Ferngren told the Roseville Press Tribune. “It’s 1996, it’s time for changes and upgrades.”
Unsurprisingly, this unwise move did little to reverse the company’s fortunes. Two years later, the San Luis Obispo Tribune reported that few of the Fresh Choice locations were serving the 575 customers per day needed to break even. It cited the “poorly executed extension [which] forced the company to cut costs and quality” as Fresh Choice was losing money virtually every quarter.
“Now hopes are pinned on a new $2 million multimedia ad campaign that most analysts and outside directors believe will finally bring Fresh Choice back to health,” the newspaper reported.
Unfortunately, my search for said advertising campaign was unsuccessful, although I discovered a completely out of control employee training video from 2006. Apparently it was common practice to get employees to answer the phone not with a “Hello” but with a shrill “Try our apple turnovers!!”!
Fresh Choice quietly closed in 2012, by which time many of its suburban locations had been vacant for some time. Today only one exists – somehow. The Fresh Choice in Gilroy retained the name but became privately owned; However, photos on Yelp still show the distinctive Fresh Choice signage. My hometown’s Fresh Choice became Bag O’ Crab, perhaps the least appealing name for a restaurant I’ve ever seen.
The change took place during my studies; I never got the chance to have a last salad on the go. If I ate it today, it would probably be a pretty repetitive standard buffet, so maybe it’s for the best that those memories get stuck in my childhood.
What I’m probably nostalgic for, however, isn’t the Italian dressing. It’s that feeling I got when I walked in, coupon in hand, knowing the food was endless. It was that bubbly moment that made me feel opulent for a moment.