The west side of Madison. For this denizen of the Isthmus, that phrase conjures the idea of the apex of a normative soulless mainstream culture, where corporate restaurant franchises dictate protocol with the same pathological assurance as certain politicians. Enter the edifice of the Cheesecake Factory, whose menu is mostly as calorically indulgent as the decor is bereft of any regional identification. To cut to the chase, I had a small Greek salad bathed in some kind of lemon oil dressing with room temperature chicken. I was happy to be back in familiar and comforting environs later that day.