If you spent any time driving through Phoenix between the late 1950s and the mid-2010s, you saw it. That massive neon sign. A longhorn steer with "Let’s Eat" glowing in the desert night. For nearly 60 years, Bill Johnson’s Big Apple wasn't just a place to grab a burger; it was a kitschy, Western-themed time capsule that defined the Valley of the Sun.
But honestly, most people today get the story backwards. They think it was just another barbecue joint that went under. It was so much more.
It was a radio station. A civil rights landmark. A family soap opera. And no, it had absolutely nothing to do with New York City.
Why it was called the Big Apple (and it’s not what you think)
Whenever a tourist saw the name, they assumed Bill Johnson was a transplant from the East Coast. Wrong.
Bill Johnson was a cowboy. A real one. He was also a stuntman, a pilot, an actor, and a professional hypnotist. The guy lived nine lives before most people finished their first. When he and his wife, Gene, opened the first restaurant at 3757 East Van Buren Street in 1956, the name "Big Apple" was actually a nod to a 1930s dance craze. It was about energy and the "big time," not Manhattan geography.
You've got to understand the vibe back then. Van Buren was the main drag, the old Route 66. It was lined with neon and optimism. Bill used the restaurant as a stage. He literally broadcasted his KTAR radio show from a booth inside the dining room. Imagine eating your eggs while Johnny Cash or Waylon Jennings sat three tables over waiting to go on air. That was just a Tuesday at the Big Apple.
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The "Whites Only" sign that wasn't
Here is a piece of history that usually gets buried. Phoenix in the 1950s and 60s was deeply segregated. Many establishments on Van Buren were not welcoming to people of color.
Bill Johnson’s Big Apple was different.
Local civil rights activists, including Rev. Jarrett Maupin, have shared stories about how Bill and Gene handled the era’s "Whites Only" laws. They reportedly took the required segregation signs and hung them upside down at the very bottom of the doors. It was a silent, defiant middle finger to the Jim Crow status quo. They served everyone.
While the "good ol' boy" decor—complete with servers wearing toy six-gun holsters—might have looked like a traditionalist’s dream, the culture inside was surprisingly progressive for the time.
The food was secondary to the theater
Let’s be real for a second. If you talk to Phoenix locals today, the reviews of the food are... mixed. Some people swear by the deep-dish apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Others remember the BBQ beans as legendary.
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But a lot of people? They just remember the show.
- The "Lost Dutchman" diorama where a mechanical miner spit-roasted a pig.
- Servers who would "arrest" you if you didn't finish your plate.
- The cigar-store Indian standing guard at the door.
- Walls plastered with so much cowboy memorabilia it looked like a museum exploded.
It was loud. It was dusty. It was "fancy eating" for families who didn't have a lot of money but wanted a night out that felt like an event. You didn't go there for a quiet, intimate dinner. You went there to feel like you were part of the Old West, even if that West was a Hollywood-ized version of reality.
The slow decline and the family feud
By the time 2010 rolled around, the world had changed. The Valley had expanded. Van Buren Street, once the crown jewel of Phoenix, had become a bit rough around the edges.
The business grew to six or seven locations at its peak, but the heart was always that original spot on Van Buren. Then things got messy.
Financial troubles started piling up. The family filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy in 2014. But it wasn't just the economy; it was internal friction. There was a documented power struggle between the third and fourth generations of the Johnson family. On one side, you had Bill's sons, Rudy and Johnny. On the other, his daughters Sherry and Dena, along with Dena’s daughter, Sherry Cameron, who served as the final CEO.
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It’s a classic, sad story. A legacy built by a larger-than-life patriarch that eventually crumbled under the weight of changing tastes and family disagreements.
The doors finally closed for good on May 24, 2015. Gateway Community College bought the land for nearly a million dollars. They tore it down. Now, where the "Let’s Eat" sign once invited the world in, there is a parking lot.
Can you still find Bill Johnson’s today?
Mostly, it lives in memory and on eBay. You’ll see the old matchbooks or the tan coffee mugs with the steer head logo popping up in vintage shops.
But if you’re craving the taste, you aren't totally out of luck.
- The BBQ Sauce: You can still find "Bill Johnson’s Barbecue Sauce" online. It’s a tangy, nostalgic trip for anyone who grew up on it.
- Johnson’s Legendary BBQ: Rick Johnson, another descendant, started his own venture to keep the original recipes alive. It’s a separate entity, but it carries the DNA of Gene Johnson’s 1930s-era cooking.
- The Neon: Parts of the iconic signage were auctioned off. Some pieces are in private collections, while others are preserved as artifacts of a Phoenix that doesn't exist anymore.
The Big Apple didn't fail because the food was bad or the people stopped caring. It failed because it was a 20th-century icon trying to survive in a 21st-century city. People wanted farm-to-table and minimalism; Bill Johnson gave them sawdust and showmanship.
Actionable ways to preserve the legacy
If you’re a fan of Arizona history or just miss the "Let's Eat" era, here is how to keep that spirit alive:
- Support the Survivors: Visit places like Pinnacle Peak Patio or the Stockyards while they still exist. These "heritage" restaurants are an endangered species.
- Track the Recipes: Look for the old "Cinnamon French Dressing" recipes that circulate in local Phoenix forums—it was a secret staple that fans have spent years trying to replicate.
- Check the Archives: The Phoenix Public Library and the Arizona Memory Project have digitized dozens of photos of the interior. If you never got to see the "Lost Dutchman" in action, that’s your best bet.
It’s easy to be cynical about a themed restaurant. But Bill Johnson’s Big Apple was a piece of the city's soul. It was a place where a kid could feel like a cowboy and a civil rights leader could find a seat at the table. That’s worth remembering.