Theatrical set designers have a name for the thin, painted screens that create the illusion of a world: the “flat.” From the center of the third row, a flat is a limestone wall in a Venetian palace or the weathered siding of a dust-bowl farmhouse. It possesses depth, history, and a certain structural integrity that the eye accepts without question.

But if you wander into the wings, the magic dissolves into a frantic, utilitarian mess. Behind the “limestone” is a lattice of unpainted pine 2x4s, a smear of dried carpenter’s glue, and a series of sandbags holding the whole lie upright. We accept this in the theater because the audience is meant to stay in their seats, but in the modern restaurant, we have begun to build our businesses like stage sets, forgetting that the people behind the curtain are there for an eight-hour shift, not a two-hour matinee.

The Obsession with Atmosphere

I spent most of this morning drafting a particularly scathing email to a developer in Scottsdale before realizing I was shouting into a void and hitting delete. My job as an ergonomics consultant usually involves measuring the height of prep tables or arguing about the lumbar support in office chairs, but lately, I’ve found myself