On the Seventh Day, God Ate Cheesecake Factory
And she ordered the Crusted Chicken Romano.
He texted to ask if our son was allergic to poisonous mushrooms. I stopped walking. Looked at the message. Read it again.
If he doesn’t know by now, he deserves to find out empirically. I slid the phone into my purse and decided, on principle, not to respond.This was my day day.
The Beverly Hills sun beat down like judgment. Palm trees lined the street like perfectly waxed legs pointing toward heaven.
It was what my life had been leading up to— my Pretty Woman moment, except I paid for everything myself and no one wanted to sleep with me for it.
I wore a black corset I’d upcycled from a London flea market, black cargo pants from Berlin, and metallic pink cowgirl boots from Melrose Ave—an outfit fit to pay respect to the temple where the will to cook dies, but the will to feel hot survives.
As I passed storefronts, everyone seemed to recognize me for what I was: a woman who could have been something. A contender. The valet at Dior nodded. The hostess at La Scala almost smiled. An Hermes sales associate told me I looked “brave,” which, here, is the same as “beautiful.”
Then I saw it. The Cheesecake Factory of Beverly Hills.
Its marble arches gleamed in the sun, a cathedral to cream and carbonara. Columns rose like miracles. The doors swung open on a cloud of garlic butter and ambition. It was everything my mother ever told me heaven would be, only with better lighting and fewer expectations.
When I was a girl, she called this place “our Vatican.” Every birthday, every Valentine’s Day, she came here. Sat under that same muted yellow light that made her look like a Caravaggio painting. The waiters treated her like royalty. One Sprite. Two Sprite. Three Sprite. MORE! I remember how she’d beam like she’d finally landed in Rome.
This was our family religion. And today, I was here to worship.
Inside, the smell was holy. Sweet cream, butter, steak, perfume, sorrow. Hostesses floated by like saints of hospitality, leading the lost to their booths. A mural showed angels harvesting spaghetti, cherubs pouring ranch dressing from silver urns. I blessed myself with a napkin and sat in the cement garden where I could watch the people of this glorious city promenade their (or their dying husband’s) riches.
A woman in a matching pilates set scrolling through pipe dream Zillow listings in silence. A man in tinted sunglasses explained crypto to a woman who kept looking at her reflection in her spoon. A teenage girl took selfies with a breadbasket. Fabulous, all of them. I’d found my people.
I ordered the Crusted Chicken Romano. The same thing my mother always got. I always wondered why she was so boring. Now, as a mother myself, I understand. This was the only good thing in her life that was delicious, rich, and completely undeserved.
I threw in a negroni though, because my mom never had to deal with men who go to therapy and fix everything but their marital problems. The waiter asked if I wanted it “Cheesecake style,” which I assume meant slightly sweeter and twice the price. I said yes.
When the chicken came, I cut the chicken straight down the middle—one half for now, one for later, because that’s what women do.
We ration our joy.
The waiter called me “queen” when he set it down. For a moment, I believed him.
Across the way, a woman ate Fried Mac & Cheese balls through tears as her child colored on a Hermès Kelly bag. The dish bubbled elegantly as it sat sandwiched between the intensity of the L.A. sun and the reflection of its heat waves off the sidewalk. Behind me, the fountain burbled softly, like it was trying to say forgive me, Father, for I may have sympathy for my mother.
Outside, José the dishwasher stood on his break. He held out a Marlboro Heavy. I took it.
The first drag tasted like garlic and God. We talked about leaving real life behind for something just as glamorous as this. He told me he got a job at a Michaels in Arizona. Lots of parking.I sighed. Another life to envy.
I checked the time. My husband was almost done explaining to strangers how to make things run smoother. Something he’s never tried at home. But hey, who am I to look a free trip to the Rancho Cucamonga Marriot’s continental breakfast in the mouth. At least I got to make my dreams come true, even if it meant for six whole days I had to write his speeches and make his colleagues wonder if he had a big member with a woman like me on his arms.
As I soaked in the last few moments of my mecca, basking in the glow of a thousand calories and one divine truth:heaven is wherever I don’t have to be anyone’s mother.
