I think everyone has to wait for their table at the Cheesecake Factory regardless of how busy they are. It was my first time here and I enjoyed the short wait; sizing up my fellow diners and watching this dazzling machine.
Even before I left the house that morning I decided to hit Yorkdale Mall for lunch. I was going to the Home Depot around the corner and thought I would grab Chipotle, then maybe a couple of Club Monaco t-shirts. However, my friend Bobby called while I was walking around looking at doors and he mentioned that, while I was up there, I should go to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. He and his girlfriend love it. I’ve never been—and I think I said, maybe I will.
When I pulled into the parking lot on the north side of the mall there was a large police presence. There was a forensic identification truck; police tape and mall security everywhere; it was a confusing scene. At the centre of all this commotion, in front of the Indigo, was a lone vehicle; the target of an early morning shooting. Inside, a young man was dead.
The only entrance that wasn’t blocked by police was the one next to the Cheesecake Factory, so that’s where I went.
Stepping inside is-to truly step back in time, but not that far back. It’s 1998 inside, solidly middle class, Pier 1 Imports-meets-aunt from Arizona. Venetian plaster walls with sponge-painted patina, beige marble tabletops, heavy cutlery, curled cast iron screens and bronze railings, floral and geometric shapes, hand painted accents, large mirrors, circular banquettes, mosaic tiled posts, a complicated ceiling of coffers and lit panels, wood, pendants. It’s a lot, but it’s balanced, it doesn’t smell like potpourri but it could. All the lighting is diffused by frosted or textured amber glass. There are few exposed lightbulbs; the lighting is pleasant on the mostly mature faces seated inside.
Everyone in here is lovely. The hosts are lovely, my server is lovely. ‘Ayesha’ has been here since they opened 7 years ago. I ask her “what’s the deal with this place?” and she tells me that, the menu has something for everybody—and it’s all really nice. “We’re a 99% scratch-kitchen, we make almost everything in-house, the prep guys are here at 5am every day”. The place is spotless. There is no visible dust or wear and tear anywhere. None of the air vents in the ceiling show signs of dusty airflow—which would be easily forgivable, being attached to a huge, busy shopping mall.
The menu reads like The Old Testament of American cookery, it’s huge, Ayesha wasn’t kidding. There is something for everyone. Imagine yourself going to an American restaurant and ordering something to eat, what are you picturing? They have that. What would your diabetic uncle order for lunch? They have that too. From Orange Beef, all-day breakfast, tacos, salads, any kind of sandwich, any style of hamburger, any classic Italian-American pasta, a gigantic list of cocktails—both trendy or classic, a one-page additional menu of Specials, and another additional Skinny Menu which has a wide variety of lighter fare. Every base is covered.
“If you want a burger, get the special smash burger, it’s amazing”. I do, I order the burger and it is amazing. Cooked perfectly, both of the thin patties are still pink inside, pickles and thousand island dressing are served on the side in small glass ramekins. My side of mayo and some ketchup are also in the same small glass ramekins, no plastic ‘Solo’ or paper cups, nothing about this place is cheap or temporary, the Cheesecake Factory isn’t going anywhere.
It’s mostly older women in here, but these women aren’t old. In their working days, these ladies were bosses (it seems to me), probably good, probably favourite bosses. The conversations are lively and engaged, all of them dressed quite smartly, lovely even. There are 4 women at the table next to me discussing the American deportations to El Salvador. Each woman is from a different cultural background, but they are all cut from the same cloth.. One of them is from South America (I’m not sure where), one is from Pakistan, one from Poland and the other is Italian—but I think she was born here. She’s the only one who didn’t order pasta for lunch, she had breakfast. These ladies like nice—but not fancy things.
In between tasks Ayesha tells me about her family, her former cake decorating business, her dreams of Real Estate and how hard it is to balance her entrepreneurial spirit with the need for security when your a mom. She seems happy and proud to work here, this is a family business, I see it now. And it started that way. In 1940-something, Evelyn Overton clipped a cheesecake recipe from a Detroit newspaper and made it for a supper she prepared for her husband’s boss. It was such a hit she kept making them and eventually opened a small bakery. She closed it later to raise her family—but then much later, with a son fresh out of business school, the whole family moved to California to revive the bakery and also serve lunch. Wild.
As the Best of the Eagles is playing, possibly on repeat, I take it all in. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered dessert at lunch, but I did today; I take my time eating it. My mind slips from this moment to the minivan outside full of bullet holes. I’m frozen solid by the thought that life is precious.
The End.
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