No. 5: Lettuce Alone

★ ★ ★ The signature feature of Roam’s Classic Burger are the broad, wavy leaves of lettuce that burst forward in a radiant greenbelt of freshness. The first thing you notice is this verdant explosion of leafy green lettuce extending several inches in all directions, its exuberance uncontainable even by the ample bun. The lettuce is fresh, crisp, and abundant. If you like lettuce this is a very good thing, as the first few bites consist of nothing but. Once past the verdant perimeter more lettuce awaits, joined by tomatoes, pickles and finely diced (possibly pickled) onions. All of the produce is top quality and generously apportioned—especially the lettuce, whose crispness perfectly complements the tender juiciness of its leafless counterparts. On its own it would make a reasonable side salad.

Though the bun is soft and pillowy it holds its contents without disintegrating or becoming too saturated with the burger’s many juices. Where the golden bread meets the vibrant verdure of the lettuce the contrast is playful and dramatic, which may well be the motivation for including lettuce in such bounty. Each chlorophyll-filled bite offers a distinctive lettuce flavor that is refreshing yet undeniably lettucey. Other flavors are present—lettuce, lettuce and lettuce—but it is the lettuce that steals the show. Its lettucey lettuce is lettuce, with a lingering lettuce-like lettuce that lettuces pleasantly on the tongue. Its lettuce is reminiscent of lettuce and lettuces between lettuce and lettuce. Lettuce’s Classic lettuce lettuce is a lettuce of lettuce and lettuce lettuce lettuce lettuce lettuce.

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The Creative Lesson

Design is a balancing act. Well-crafted design is well-balanced design. Well-balanced design requires judicous editing and thougtful attention to both proportion and scale. If we allow oursleves to fall in love with one aspect of a design—a great image, bold typeface or satisfying technique, for example—we can lose sight of the smaller role it's meant to play in a larger scene. Unrestrained, a minor element can become a major distraction, overstepping its supporting role and upstaging central player.

No. 4: The Value of Pie

★ ★ ★ Things happen. Often those things are good things. Sometimes they’re great things. Once in a while they’re shitty things—hence the expression, “shit happens.”

The first thing that happened at Pig & Pie was a good thing. That was the burger. Made entirely from scratch with American Waygu beef, the Lardo Burger at Pig & Pie is both simple and delicious. Dressed with lettuce and an onion and bacon jam, its humble presentation belies the depth of its flavor.

The second thing that happened was not so good. As is our custom, we ordered an additional burger to take back to the studio to photograph. We had beers to keep us company, so it took a while for us to notice that our order was overdue. I motioned to the server who attended us promptly. When I asked about the extra burger, she immediately admitted that she’d just plain forgot to put in the order. She apologized and hurried off to the kitchen to place it. Moments later she was back with a couple of slices of lemon shaker pie, on the house. That was kind of a great thing.

When we arrived back at the office I called a client I’d neglected to call back promptly, apologized, then made sure we got them the next round ahead of schedule.

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The Creative Lesson

Things happen. Never miss an opportunity to turn a negative experience into a positive one, just follow this simple rule: When you screw up, own up, then make it up.

No. 3: The Absent Waitress

★ Outside the landmark It’s Tops Coffee Shop the marquee proclaims, “Voted Best Burgers.” Inside, the diner preserves all the details of it’s 79-year heritage. Its knotted, wood-paneled walls are covered with historic photos, framed newspaper articles, pin-up girls, and old signs. Vinyl-seated booths feature tabletop juke boxes, and behind the counter there’s a full soda fountain. By all appearances It’s is a classic American diner; the only things missing are customers, customer service, and a decent burger.

When we walk in the waitress is on the phone (her’s, not the Top’s), but acknowledges us with an upward tilt of her chin and motions toward an empty booth in the back (actually, we’re the only ones there, so in point of fact they are all empty). From behind the counter she asks if she can get us a drink. I order a Coke, Nathan asks for a root beer. A few minutes later our drinks arrive and the waitress takes our order—Don’s Bleu Cheese and Bacon Burger. Bleu cheese can be a bit intense on a burger and in this instance its presence is overwhelming. Thick and pungent, the cheese dominates an otherwise bland experience. The tomato, pickles and shredded lettuce—all of which are cafeteria quality—do little to fill the vacancy left by the flavorless patty. The bacon adds some dimension but if blue cheese and bacon are all you’re after, the Cobb salad from Chow is a more satisfying choice.

The diner, meanwhile, is eerily silent. Not only are there no other customers, but the waitress has now abandoned us as well. For several long minutes we wonder where she’s gone. Could she be on a restroom break? Did she step out for a smoke? Is she collapsed behind the counter? Perhaps our intrusion has driven her to a more private location to continue her call. Though it was clear when we entered that she was mentally checked out, we weren’t prepared for actual truancy. After perhaps nine or ten minutes she reappears like a nomad in the deserted space to present us with the bill. We paid it, then left feeling emptier than when we arrived.

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The Creative Lesson

You must be present to win. Ninety percent of life might just be showing up, but it’s the other ten percent that makes the difference. You can’t check out of a project— not mentally, not physically, not even temporarily—and expect it to succeed on its own.

No. 2: Play Musty for Me

★ ★ In a small service alley off of Mission Street in San Francisco, a rotating collection of food trucks gather at midday. Today, three of them are parked in tandem down the dead-end street. Ebbett’s Good To Go is serving cuban sandwiches near the dumpsters at the back of the alley. Up front, the exuberantly decorated Chairman Bao is making a brisk business of selling steamed buns at $4.50 a pop. Between them sits the elusive Doc’s of the Bay, an all-American comfort food station on wheels praised for its fried chicken, house made ketchup, and of course its hamburger.

Two alleys over the pavement reeks of urine and ammonia and the air is hazy with cheap weed and thick with the self-loathing scent of the smoke-break-cigarette. Here the aroma of frying onions, ground beef, and cheese mingles with exhaust from the trio of generators that reverberate in the narrow void of this unplanned space. The smoke from Doc’s grill hangs low in the air, a colloid of carbon and grease too heavy to escape the high walls of this urban canyon and too savorous to cause us to retreat instead. Quite literally, it is suspenseful.

The smokey, steamy, fume-filled air is anticipatory—each scent a promise of a flavor to come. When our names are called over the cycling generators and sizzling fat we seize  our burgers eagerly. The first bite of Doc’s Classic Burger is unforgettable. Through the toasted bun, warm melted cheese and cold ripe tomato arises a distinctive mushroomy flavor. That is, the flavor is distinctly fungal. It tastes at first like the rich, earthy flavor of a woodland mushroom, an artifact—I presume—of a well-seasoned grill. I’m not certain that I like the flavor, but I’m attracted to the idea that this patty contains the secret history of its predecessors in its crispy edges. Nathan is similarly confronted and asks, “Does this taste…musty to you?” 

As soon as he says this, I realize that it is indeed an unsettling mustiness swirling through my nose and clinging unpleasantly to my tongue. It’s not the flavor of woodland mushrooms, nor truffles, nor anything that belongs in a kitchen. It is exactly the flavor of your favorite childhood book, pulled from a box in the basement to reveal a cover blooming with moldy spores. Each bite offers no relief, just as each turn of the page confirms that your childhood storybook is beyond redemption. 

I may have been convinced that it was a flavor too subtle or refined or new for my palate to identify. I could have been told (and I may have believed) that it was an acquired taste that I would come to appreciate. Once labeled “musty” however, those options were closed to me. The label—not I—was in control of the experience. 

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The Creative Lesson

Name the frame. When presenting creative options give each a name—this one is contemporary, this one is traditional, etc. If you don’t someone else will and you’ll be at the mercy of their label, not yours.

Once, when presenting logo directions to Stanford University, I showed three options which, in the interest of neutrality, I labelled A, B and C. Someone in the meeting made a remark about direction C looking like a butt, from which point on it was referred to as the “butt logo” (and from which point on I knew it had no chance of being picked). Ever after I've given my own nicknames to every idea we present.

No. 1: The Power of Pickles

★ ★ ★ ★ Disclosure: the folks who own Super Duper are clients of MINE™.

Super Duper makes a super burger. I’d say it’s in the real fast food category, meaning that it’s fast food that is also real food. In-n-Out and Smashburger would be the same category. We have a few qualms about the menu design (occupational hazard) and there are some inconsistencies to the branding that we’d like to one day address, but when it comes to their eponymous offering it’s hard to find a flaw. Super’s Mini Burger features a 4oz. patty garnished with lettuce, tomato, American cheese and of course their “super sauce”. The patty is thin and their grill is hot, so the meat comes out perfectly seared on the outside and deliciously juicy inside. The buns is basic and toasted. Everything is in perfect proportion. You have the option to add jalapeño, fried egg, onions and other toppings, but as-is it’s about as close to the iconic all-American burger as you can get.

When we turn this blog into a book, we plan to include a full case-study on Super Duper—the strategy naming, branding, decor, menu, experience design, even how they handle their trash. For now, let’s just focus on the pickles. The pickles at Super are pretty amazing. They make them themselves and large jars of them are stocked in the front of their stores. They’re also free. It may seem like a small detail, but it’s a significant one in two important ways:

1. Generosity. There may be no such thing as a free lunch, but starting off your lunch with a little something on the house creates an atmosphere of generosity, hospitality and general good will. In a world that nickels and dimes you for every little “extra” unlimited free pickles set Super apart as relaxed, friendly and customer-focused.
   
   
2. Quality. Perhaps the most important function of the pickle is that it sets up an expectation of quality. It is almost guaranteed that the first thing you’ll eat at Super Duper is one (or more) of their free pickles. You’re waiting. They’re there. It’s inevitable. The genius of this is that their pickles are delicious— crisp and tangy with just enough crunch to make each bite a satisfying one. They’re artisanal, not industrial, and this impression is then transferred to the burger.

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The Creative Lesson

Manage first impressions. Super Duper’s pickles are an inexpensive and powerful brand message. Believe it or not, they're a sophisticated expression of a thoughtful brand strategy.

By stocking them front of house (the way Five Guys stocks its peanuts on the dining area floor) one has the sensation of stepping into a working kitchen rather than some antiseptic fast food cafeteria. By giving their handmade pickles away for free they establish a rapport of pride and generosity with their customers. And by keeping the quality high and consistent they *demonstrate* these values rather than stating them with empty tag lines or insistent signs declaring “hand-crafted” and “artisan”.