I published my first picture book for children two years ago, when I was 62 — a bit late to the reading circle, I admit. But William Steig didn’t publish his first picture book until he was 61, and Laura Ingalls Wilder was 65 when “Little House in the Big Woods” came out in 1932, so as a late bloomer I’m in good company. The funny thing is, writing for kids had long been an ambition of mine, but until recently I didn’t know it had long been an ambition. While that might sound contradictory, remember that there is an entire industry — talk therapy — built on the idea that one’s own back story can be terra incognita.
There’s something uncanny about the chain. The very combination of words “The Cheesecake Factory” evokes the idea of a humble, blue-collar dessert diner, yet every Cheesecake Factory looks like what would happen if a time-traveling Italian artisan drew ancient Egypt from memory. Somewhere between the chicken samosas, the Skinnylicious section, and the Americana Cheeseburger Glamburger®, between the towering columns, overstuffed booths, and the free refills on soda, the veil between sense and nonsense, lucidity and lunacy, and good and bad dissolves.
This, I’m told, is what makes the Cheesecake Factory a special place — a brave, unapologetic lack of self-awareness or pretense. The rules that govern regular restaurants have no power over the Cheesecake Factory. If there is one rule at the Cheesecake Factory, it’s that the conventional wisdom of the restaurant industry — keeping costs low, concepts simple, and menus under 200 items — is meant to be ignored.
The hotel lobby is a category of place I had once written off as the epitome of dull corporate life. Splendid decor aside, this one was as inoffensive in atmosphere, menu, and company as you could expect from a giant chain in the downtown of a midsize Midwestern city. That suited me just fine. It was bright enough to read in, quiet enough to talk on the phone, empty enough to find the perfect chair—but lively enough to keep the hotel room blues away.
This is the anodyne essence of the hotel lobby, whatever its architectural flourishes. It’s a place required to play so many roles at once—concierge and reception, conference on-ramp, family playpen, meeting place, café-bar, deal zone—that it can never stray too far in any one direction. Most public life is commercialized, and most commercial spaces are circumscribed by waitlists, high prices, esoteric specialization, and behavioral codes. But the hotel lobby is free ground. Have a seat, why don’t you?