The New Frankenstein

A couple weekends ago, Statler drags me out to The Cheesecake Factory at Southpoint Mall in Durham (not literally, of course, I'm being dramatic). In the hour and fifteen minutes we waited for a table, I got the opportunity to inspect the place pretty closely.

I've only been to one location of The Cheesecake Factory before and that was in Georgetown, Washington, D.C.. We went only for cheesecake, which I do not remember as being very good or very bad so that must mean it was the usual chain restaurant fare that is just tasty and timely enough for the customer to think they're happy, pay, and leave without actually being a memorable experience. I don't remember the location as standing out to me in any distinct way, granted this was ten years ago before I really thought about anything outside my own inner angst, but it blended in with all the other historic storefronts of houses and mom and pop stores that had morphed into Gaps and Banana Republics while somehow still floating under the guise of historic preservation.

Anyway, back to The Cheesecake Factory in Durham, which at first struck me as a horrific but grew on me as a garish, mockable delight. First, let me explain that Southpoint mall at Durham is apparently one of those malls designed to look like a city street, because for whatever reason suburbanites are seen as wanting a city shopping experience without having to leave the suburbs and actually visit a city (maybe city street shopping is more "authentic" or maybe it's the idea of being outdoors while not actually having to be in nature?). But the whole effect of these neighborhood malls is somewhat farcical in that they purport to be separate buildings, unique, individual, authentic, special, and unto themselves, but, as a consumer, I just end up feeling patronized. I guess I'm not supposed to notice the shoddy construction that is present in all buildings, the moldings that overlap much too far onto the adjacent buildings, the bricks that are all aligned or sometimes too perfectly staggared, a plastic lamp post painted to look like iron but really only looking like poorly painted plastic the closer you get to it, and the fact that this is in no way a city street. Ah, the simulacrum.

The Cheesecake Factory was made up red brick with a cafe style outcropping carefully surrounded by a metal (supposedly ironwork) rail common in American cafes where people want the experience of sitting outside and eating on the "street" without actually being part of that street (such careful distinctions must be made). The building had art deco windows and doors but the doors were surrounded by roman "columns" and the columns, in turn, were surrounded by Aegean tile. Inside, it was an absolute clusterfuck. There were large Egyptian columns with supposedly Egyptian faces painted on them that were carefully balanced to be not so exotic that I feel transported to somewhere else but odd enough that I couldn't help but notice them. There were Sistine Chapel style murals painted into the ceiling over plastic wicker chairs and floral print chintz booths that should only be found in diners or large, inexpensive chain hotel bars (personal opinion, of course). And to top off that dimly lit, charmingly uncomfortable ambiance was the nondescript music playing so loudly that Statler and I had to shout across the table at each other to be heard; and when the waitress told us the specials, I didn't have the heart to tell her that I hadn't heard a word she'd said.

The survey of the interior was finished off by our being handed menus that were spiral bound, glossy paged notebooks. The appetizer list alone was two pages long! The menu covered everything from Thai lettuce wraps, to quesadillas, to pasta in wine sauce. There was so much on it and so many different kinds of items on it, it was impossible to determine what might be their specialty. Well, of course their specialty is cheesecake, but why stop there! The place is the best evidence I've yet seen that supports my suspicion of an American cultural and culinary identity crisis.

My food was good. Not great. There was, in typical American fashion, about three meals worth of food on a single plate. Everything was so odd and also so nondescript at the same time; it was carefully crafted to be forgettable and overpriced-- a carefully contrived balance of getting top dollar for a meal and an experience that was "okay." I do think, though, that it was all worth it. The Cheesecake Factory had managed to capture a sort of abominable, frightening charm...somewhat like Frankenstein. I mean, I sort of rooted for Frankenstein, ya know? It wasn't his fault, really. More Victor Frankenstein, the creator, that was truly the monster.

So who creates places like The Cheesecake Factory? And more importantly, why do we go? Well, the first question goes back to the mall itself and beyond-- it's the same ubiquitous "they" that we use to refer to the masterminds behind government, business, marketing and other conspiracies.

The problem is that "they" is apt. It's not one person or one group: it's architects, interior designers, chefs, culinary experts, document designers, scientists studying why people make the choices they do, market researchers, advertisers, menu designers. On their own, they create the space. Together, through the long chain, the space takes on a life of its own. It becomes not the object of design being labeled and molded. Instead, it blurs the space between subject and object, the space begins to label those that create it, those that detest it, those that find solace in it, and those that have never been. Instead of telling it what sort of place it should be, the space begins to tell us what sort of consumers we should be, what foods we should like, what music creates dinner ambiance, where to walk, what food is popular, what design schemes are popular, how to sit, when to leave.

But it's an inanimate object you say? Yes and no. In the postmodern breakdown of signs is it really possible to believe still that the object has no power, only the subject? We create the space. Us. The consumers. Yet it defines us as much as we define it. I speak places like The Cheesecake Factory while it speaks me. I am now someone who eats at The Cheesecake Factory. This defines me as a middle-class professional with some spare money to blow (at least on that day), who likes options, who never eats alone so the menu choices have to be broad in order for us to all agree to go to one place and find something we want while usually suffering from a decision-making phobia at the same time, where the music is loud enough that we don't have to have a meaningful conversation with one another if we don't want to, and the seating uncomfortable enough that we don't feel obligated to linger in each others' company. We are the Dr. Frankensteins and the Frankenstein monster and the villagers running in terror.

While the sign over the door reads "The Cheesecake Factory," there is an underlying subtext that says "Welcome to the paradox of hypermodernity."