The Context of Comfort Food
Yesterday, I was informed that the diner which served my favorite mozzarella sticks of all time was shutting its doors. If you know me, you know once something has attained the highest ranking on my list, it has to be excellent and it probably won’t budge from that spot given normal circumstances.
The Happiest of Times
You could show up at any hour that this place was open and get the big order (12 pieces!) of mozzarella sticks with the full confidence that you’d be served a pile of happiness on a plate with a side of marinara. They’re batting 1000 when it comes to delivering on this promise. Restaurants have no problem with royally botching these simplest of comforts, and I’ve had some disappointing experiences with them coast to coast.
During the process of commiserating with my friends, someone (who’s never actually been to this diner, but is a fan of mozzarella sticks) reminded me, quite frankly, these sticks are likely the standard, run-of-the-mill, bottom rate nonsense that any food distributor carries. In all reality, I could probably pick up a frozen sack of five dozen at Costco.
This wasn’t the heartless revelation I could’ve taken it to be. Instead, it made me realize that, perhaps, it wasn’t the mozzarella sticks alone that earned top billing on my all-time-greatest-mozzarella-sticks list. There was more to the equation than just crispy breading and the perfect cheese consistency.
It’s all about context
As a designer, I’ve come to know that designing experiences doesn’t happen without understanding the context in which those experiences occur. No interaction happens in a vacuum just like no plate of mozzarella sticks is consumed in a vacuum. There are constantly surrounding inputs and ancillary stimuli to consider.
In this case, though I explicitly sought those tasty tubes of melted cheese on each visit, they weren’t the sum of the experience. The building and the company were as much a part of my pleasure as were the things I ordered. I always visited with people I loved, and we typically staggered in after a night of beer-assisted debauchery and laughter. It was about the fact that I was dining in a classic, American-built, trailer-style establishment that had stood for over 50 years, most of which as a 24/7 favorite of both locals and passersby who pulled off the nearby interstate for a bite and a coffee. It was about the cruddy, weathered stainless steel facade and the half-lit, buzzing neon sign that could be seen a quarter mile from the boulevard.
I’ll miss my favorite plate of those epic artery cloggers (and the reubens, too), but the real heartache is that the municipality has lost a landmark. Most importantly, when I visit my hometown, my friends and I will have one less familiar place to grab a satisfying meal and share some laughs.