Be My Guest: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Cheesecake

Hello folks,

I would like to introduce to you my newest segment: Be My Guest. This is where I feature an entry from a guest blogger who really captures the essence of the Ultimate TJ Kous. The below was written by my sister, known in the blogging world as Crumpets. Enjoy.

(ps. if you ever want to be featured in Be My Guest let me know, we'll talk!)

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Cheesecake

In honor of the Ultimate TJ Kous’s imminent return to the land of his birth, I dedicate this blog to the one and only institution that celebrates the very best and worst of what America has to offer: The Cheesecake Factory.

If you’ve never been to The Cheesecake Factory (or what I will henceforth refer to as CheeFa, a liberty I feel comfortable taking due to my self-appointed blogger status) I’d say stop what you’re doing right now (well, finish reading this first), begin a competitive eating training regiment in order to sufficiently stretch your stomach (cause, believe me, it’s not ready), get yourself to the nearest CheeFa location and prepare to taste the flavors of red, white and blue.

I don’t care if you are now or have ever been a member of the Communist Party. To not love CheeFa is as un-American as it gets. What’s not to love is what’s not to hate: the oversized portions; the appropriation (read: bastardization) of foreign cuisines; the sheer amount of booths in the restaurant (oh, the booths!); the mechanized corporate-speak of the servers (up-sell, up-sell, up-sell); the endless tome of a menu.

Being handed the multi-laminated-page menu, in all its spiral-bound glory is both the most exciting and daunting moment of the experience. Yes, I have some tried and true favorites (Grilled Chicken and Avocado Club, Luau Salad, Barbeque Ranch Chicken Salad, Chinese Chicken Salad), but the pressure is always on to CHOOSE SOMETHING NEW. Will I like the Barbeque Chicken Pizza? Will the Crusted Chicken Romano taste as delicious as it sounds? Will the Fresh Fish Tacos be messy to eat? Is it lame to order The Factory Burger since I could get that at another restaurant? Does it make sense to order Spicy Cashew Chicken at CheeFa when I could get it at the Chinese restaurant on the corner? These questions plague me, to the point of causing displeasure (Yes! I said it, displeasure at the Cheesecake Factory! It does exist.)

This ordering process too closely resembles my everyday life, the life full of opportunity and choice, the life I’m afforded just by virtue of the fact that I AM AMERICAN. It is my job, in some cases my duty, to choose, and I just so happen to be one of those people who think they want a little taste of everything and ends up always ordering the very same thing.
The ultimate question is: Do I enjoy my Luau Salad any less just because I order it every single time?

Or, wait, is it: Should I just order the Factory Burger if I want it?

Or: If Obama or Clinton wins the Democratic nomination will we be stuck with another
Republican president?

(Should I just move back to Canada?)

No matter how painful the experience may be I go back for one reason and one reason alone: I love me a big portion. And, I don’t mean this as any sort of metaphor for being American (I want a three-car garage and the cars to fill it!). I mean exactly what I say. I walk through those doors, in cites from Marina del Rey to Boston, MA, into the bustling, cavernous, sanctuary because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I will be presented with the largest single portion of food I can find at any restaurant, and I will walk out of that restaurant more uncomfortably full than imaginable. And, though I will feel like the fattest person in the room as I depart, I’m comforted by one steadfast rule: I will never be the fattest person in the room. This is America, after all.

For now, I’m thankful there is no CheeFa in New York City (I can barely decide which Chinese food place on the corner I should order from). But, perhaps it is in these moments when I venture outside the city where I dwell, deeper into the land of the free and the home of the brave, and find myself holding a menu with ads and 33 types of cheesecake (one called 6 Carb, made with Splenda!) that I become the very best version of myself, the one who is about to stand for something, right or wrong, rich or poor, fries or a salad. It doesn’t matter what I choose, it’s that I have no choice but to choose, and therefore I am all that I can be as I look up into the imploring eyes of the server who asks, “What’ll it be?”