PHOTO BY KRISTY GRAVER

It’s a sunny Tuesday afternoon in December and I’m sitting alone in the North Huntingdon McDonald’s eating a Big Mac in the shadow of an even bigger Big Mac.

The fiberglass burger is a 14-by-12-foot tribute to two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles and onions on a sesame-seed bun.

The “meal disguised as a sandwich” was created by the late Michael James “Jim” Delligatti, a Pittsburgher who operated more than a dozen Mickey D’s in the area. It debuted in 1967 at the Uniontown location with a price tag of 45 cents and went nationwide the following year.

Related: These Are the Best Burgers in Pittsburgh

The iconic artery-clogger is mentioned in one of my all-time favorite movies, “Pulp Fiction,” so I wore a Mia Wallace T-shirt to lunch. (For the record, I also ordered a Royale with Cheese.)

Since 2007, the North Huntingdon spot has housed the Big Mac Museum.

In addition to the colossal burger, the eatery contains a bronze bust of Delligatti holding his signature sammich, display cases filled with Big Mac memorabilia and TVs playing vintage McDonald’s commercials. I still get choked up when I see Ronald McDonald the clown ice skating with kids. And don’t even get me started on Mac Tonight, a cool, crescent moon-headed crooner who sang jazzy jingles about McNuggets.

PHOTO BY KRISTY GRAVER

The Big Mac Museum reminds me of the bright, colorful McDonald’s restaurants of my youth. Back in the ’80s, you could wolf down a Happy Meal then ride the Fry Guy carousel and lock up your pals in the Officer Big Mac Climb-In Jail. (I’ve done more time in that thing than the damn Hamburgler.)

As food editor, I’m proud of Pittsburgh’s place in fast-food history. The late Mayor Sophie Masloff declared Sept. 25, 1992, “McDonald’s Corporation Day” and renamed the whole town “Big Mac USA.” My daughter, Sarah, who inherited my love for the chain, was born exactly 17 years later.

I think Pittsburgh City Council should install another big Big Mac and one of those enormous Heinz ketchup bottles in Frank Curto Park on Bigelow Boulevard next to artist John Henry’s yellow, metal masterpiece that yinzers lovingly call “the french fry sculpture.”

Give me a break — my first word was “arches.”