By Kitty and Greg
In 2018, a gift card to The Cheesecake Factory (TCF) entered Greg’s possession, a re-gift from his aunt, thinly disguised as a Christmas present. Remnants of sticky glue covered the loose card with $100 scrawled on its back in Sharpie. But living in New York City at the time, there was no convenient Cheesecake Factory to redeem it. The odds of actually using the card were slim—a corporate invention that dared the recipient to decide whether their gift was a blessing or a burden.
By 2021, after several years of neglect, Greg knew the gift card needed a new guardian. He handed it off to Kitty, figuring that with their combined willpower, they would one day share a Mexicali Salad and a platter of Chicken Littles.
More years passed. The gift card remained untouched, buried in the console of Kitty’s Volkswagen Tiguan. During a moment of weakness—following a disappointing denim try-on at Zara in the Providence Place Mall—she briefly considered lifting her spirits with a Raspberry Lemon Drop and a fat slice at TCF bar. No, not without Greg.
When Kitty won an additional $50 to TCF in a family Yankee Swap during the 2024 holiday season, she realized enough was enough. The years of hoarding cheesecake dollars had to come to an end. This year, their annual holiday dinner with old high school friends wouldn't be at a trendy newcomer or a beloved tapas spot—it was TCF or bust. Armed with their stockpile of gift cards, they were finally ready to indulge.
When Kitty and Greg stepped inside, TCF greeted them exactly as they had left it in 2012. A culinary, corporate utopia untouched by time. Nary a faux-stucco wall had been whitewashed, nor a subway tile installed. The airy figures in the murals had never heard of bird flu, refrigerated dessert display cases never felt the effects of climate change. Had the restaurant ignored the collective traumas of the past five years, or had it remained strong for the sake of its patrons? Without a sleek logo rebrand to critique, they let the tsunami of nostalgia wash over them.
Greg marveled at the cruise-ship grandeur of the decor, just as he had when he was seventeen—the vaguely Egyptian columns, the swerves and curves of dark-paneled wood partitions, and the strange haze of a saffron lighting scheme.
Kitty also noted TCF’s resistance to interior design trends and general disregard for the zeitgeist, but was elated to inform the group that they had made one concession: reservations. To book their table for five, she had enrolled in the TCF membership—earning her a steady stream of promotional emails and a birthday cheesecake voucher.
For their group—the kind of friends who had seen each other through Spice Girls fandom, questionable sartorial choices and teenage heartbreaks—the restaurant evoked memories of a time when dining at TCF felt like the pinnacle of sophistication. In those days, Rhode Island’s Cheesecake Factory represented aspirational luxury. Greg recalled the triumph of securing a sidewalk table for himself and Kitty during Providence’s famous WaterFire event. He had waited in line for two hours, only to have the experience sullied by a passing police horse relieving itself directly in front of their table. The stench had forced them back inside, but for a moment, they had lived the high life.
As their group studied the menus, turning the pages of these tomes felt like flipping through a dusty high school yearbook. Some dishes felt like old friends—the Santa Fe Salad and the Factory Burrito Grande. Others remained the popular mean girls, their names still taunting in bold type: “Glamburgers” and “Skinnylicious Specialties.”
Their meal unfolded like a pleasant recurring dream—a familiar scene with slight variations. The brown bread, once a highlight, now tasted oddly reminiscent of a Subway footlong. But still, Kitty ate six slices slathered in butter. The southwest egg rolls, however, remained tried and true. They ordered the sampler and launched a game of egg roll roulette, blindly biting and guessing which roll housed the cheeseburger and the chicken taquito.
When it came to entrées, Greg, unfortunately, misstepped—choosing practicality over nostalgia. A turkey club instead of the indulgence of Korean Fried Chicken, the comfort of Crusty Chicken Romano, or the sheer spectacle of Factory Nachos. He was left with a perfectly fine sandwich and serviceable fries. To her delight, Kitty's Spicy Chipotle Chicken Pasta tasted exactly as it had when she aced her freshman-year oceanography midterm—a win for consistency and chain restaurant food science.
Earlier in the evening, before drinks had even arrived, each diner had already begun strategizing their cheesecake selection. After all, $150 wasn’t going to spend itself. But by the time the plates were cleared, stomachs were nearly at capacity. A cheesecake caucus was called, and after some deliberation, two slices secured the nomination: fresh strawberry and Adam’s Peanut Butter Cup Fudge Ripple. The first bites confirmed what they had hoped—the strawberry slice was light and perfectly tangy, while the sliver of Adam’s was unapologetically rich, each forkful a decadent churn of chocolate and peanut butter. These were desserts dreams were made of. The Cheesecake Factory indeed continued to live up to its name.
Of course, they had vastly underestimated the cost of their meal. Five people, multiple courses, a round of drinks—there was no way they were getting out for under $200. But their high school-era delusions had convinced them otherwise. And while they had to fork over some extra funds, Kitty and Greg left feeling lighter, freed from the burden of the long-held gift cards.
As they burst out of the revolving door into the nippy December air, the last days of 2024 closing in, Kitty and Greg felt the Eternal Sunshine Effect of The Cheesecake Factory. To dine there was to step back to the great before—a world untouched by breaking news alerts, work frustrations, and the creeping weight of adulthood. The restaurant had cast its spell: worries melted under the surreal frescoed ceiling, calories lost all meaning, and for a few fleeting hours, the outside world simply ceased to exist. In the end, the curse of the TCF gift card had been a blessing.
Later that night, after dropping off his friends, Greg sat in his driveway, the high of the evening lingering. A thought struck him—could there be another one? Had a past version of himself been wise enough to leave a gift for the Greg of the future? He reached into his center console, fingers sifting through post office receipts and N95 masks, searching for a piece of plastic that might hold the promise of another night suspended in time.
Name drops: The Cheesecake Factory
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Meredith Miotke1. You can see more of her work here.
Meredith Mitoke is an illustrator and–despite all odds–somewhat successful plant parent. Formerly based in NYC, she made the move back to her beloved hometown of Detroit in 2019. After a childhood filled with reading, learning, and drawing, she couldn't resist the chance to combine all three in illustration. She loves building intricate, colorful worlds filled with curious characters and rich textures. When not drawing, she can usually be found trying to perfect a new baking challenge or attempting to stop her two cats from bullying her pup.
Her work has been recognized by the Society of Illustrators, American Illustration, 3x3 Magazine, and Creative Quarterly.
When I was growing up, only the richest kids would visit TCF before prom and it would be years before I would get my first visit. Love this so much and absolutely obsessed with the artwork!