No. 32: Who’s Your Daddy?

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ No reservations? No waitlist? No waiters? No ketchup? No subsitutions? Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

In 2000, chef Sang Yoon bought a tiny bar in Santa Monica named Father’s Office and inadvertently started the American gastropub movement. He also created what has been heralded as the best burger in America. Served halved on a soft french roll (made for them by nearby Helms Bakery), the patty is some of the finest-tasting meat—ground or otherwise—you’re likely to encounter. Yoon dry ages his own sirloin in a small room at the back of his original Montana Street location, reportedly going through 4,000 pounds a week. The coarse grind oozes as much character as it does hot, fatty juices. It has an earthy, almost gamey, flavor and is cooked to a perfect—and I mean perfect—medium rare. 

Famously, chef Yoon eschews both mustard and ketchup, so much so that neither are even available in the restaurant. While this angers some, those who understand burgers know that ketchup doesn’t really belong on one to begin with (and certainly not on Father’s beautifully aged sirloin). In place of America’s third-favorite condiment, Yoon offers a smooth Applewood bacon compote. Paired with caramelized onions, the sweet, creamy combination is an inspired alternative to a dollop of Heinz tomato-solids-in-a-viscous-bath-of-high-fructose-corn-syrup. Likewise, the arugula is a surprisingly appropriate choice of lettuce. Its tangy, peppery flavor is almost mustard-like, adding a refreshing brightness to each bite. The cheeses, a mixture of gruyere and Maytag blue, are gooey and pungent but (again surprisingly) not overpowering. It’s a wonderfully balanced take on the burger—one that defines excellence while expanding the definition of the iconic sandwich.

Though the composition of the burger is unconventional, it is not without precedent. In fact, Yoon says his now famous burger was inspired by an unlikely source. “I created this burger at a time when there were no chef-driven burgers,” he explains, “There was nothing to model it after, so I had to look elsewhere for inspiration.” The key inspiration for the Father’s Office burger? French onion soup. French onion soup? French onion soup. That sounds odd until Yoon explains just how much the dish resembles a burger. “It’s beef. It’s bread. It’s cheese. It’s sweet caramelized onions,” he says, “It’s one of my favorite beef experiences.” Once one understands the inspiration for the burger it’s easier to understand why he forbids ketchup. Would you put ketchup on french onion soup?

Which brings us to the heart of the matter. The idea that one’s status as a “consumer” also entitles one to editorial authority, creative direction, or even co-authorship continues to perplex me. Should I be able to edit my burger by substituting ingredients, holding the onions, or slathering on ketchup? Some would argue yes. After all, I am paying for it right? But am I paying for the product or the service? If the former, and it’s a masterpiece, do I have any business messing with it? Would you abbreviate Joyce? Embellish a Rauschenberg? Erase a De Kooning? 

If it’s a service, is it my job to tell a professional how to do theirs? Designers and architects and other creative professionals are routinely asked by clients to add, subtract, or otherwise alter our work to their individual taste. I understand that. But I also have reverence for artists and for their art. I try to have humility in the presence of mastery. Chef Yoon is a poet; the Office Burger is his opus. No part is superfluous. Nothing is wanting. It is an evocative masterwork of edible syntax, metaphor, and suggestion, crafted into a deliciously succinct idea. Would you edit a poem to better suit your taste? Of course not.

so much depends
upon

an all beef
patty

dressed judiciously

cooked to medium
rare.

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The Creative Lesson

We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. We’ve become conditioned to the mantra, ”The customer is always right.” That’s always seemed like a preposterous proposition to me. For one, it credits the customer with an impressively broad range of knowledge and expertise. For another, it strips the expert of much of theirs. It also begs the question, “If you already know what you want, why aren’t you making it yourself?”

Now, I’m not saying that the expert is always right. But a chef, or an artist, or a designer—or any author for that matter—should have the right to refuse edits to their work. That’s a right earned by being someone who creates things rather than simply consuming them. Giving more power to consumers than creators is a perverse inversion of values and value.

No. 30: That for Which We Hunger

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Located in San Francisco’s Mission District, ABV's kitchen keeps the same hours as its bar—2pm to 2am daily—which means that for 50% of your life you also have access to one of the City’s finest burgers.

To understand ABV’s approach to food, you first have to understand their approach to cocktails. To understand that, it helps to understand the people. ABV (Alcohol By Volume) is a relatively new bar run by four partners with enviable San Francisco bar and restaurant pedigrees: Ryan Fitzgerald is well known to San Francisco drinkers; his smooth cocktails and easy charm elevated Beretta to one of the City’s most desirable watering holes. Eric Reichborn-Kjennerud is the man who took the overlooked back room at his nearby dive bar Dalva and transformed it into the specialty cocktail bar, Hideout. Todd Smith tended bar at Hideout, having perfected his craft at the famed tenderloin speakeasy, Bourbon and Branch. 

ABV features a well-edited collection of whiskeys (Ardbeg, Springbank's Campbeltown Collection), thoughtful gins (Leopold Bros., Averell), and a fine anthology of tequilas and mezcal. Most seem to have been selected for their distinct and assertive flavors, around which ABV has crafted a modest offering of impeccably balanced cocktails. My current favorite is the Whiskey in Church, a combination of fortified sherry, maple, and smoked pear bitters stirred around a healthy pour of smoky scotch (in this instance Ardbeg, though it's also been made for me with Laphroaig and a Bowmore distilled 18 year A.D. Rattray). It is a sublimely subtle sip. 

Their exquisitely refreshing Kentucky Mule is made with their own ginger syrup and served in a highball glass beaten with sprigs of fresh mint. The bracing Tarragon Collins proves they’re unafraid to improve on the classics. When we walked in on this particular Tuesday afternoon, Boris, the bartender, was rejecting a large bowl of freshly cut limes. They were the wrong size and the wrong shape, he explained, both would effect the taste. Here the large, optically-clear ice cubes and unique (chilled) glasses for each concoction don't ooze the same pretense as they do elsewhere; they're simply tools of the trade. No wonder that bartenders from four different bars stopped by during our visit. 

And then there's the food. 

Former St. Vincent sous chef Kevin Cimino has come into his own in ABV's kitchen. Following stints at A16, Commonwealth, and Tartine (where he worked with burger guru Chris Kronner) the 28-year-old Zagat-rated '30 under 30' chef has brilliantly reinvented bar food. Served exclusively on small plates and sans utensils, his dishes are playfully organized around accessible themes and relatable formats. Tartine toast with sweet house made butter, fresh peas, and mint. Kimchi fritters with shaved bonito. Two-bite peanut butter and jelly ice cream sandwiches. A pimento cheese burger.

Oh, the pimento cheese burger.

Like everything else at ABV, the burger is built around a few, bold flavors. The deceptively small looking quarter pound patty is made from grass fed Marin Sun Farms beef. The meat is about 80% lean muscle which they grind fresh daily. The other 20% is 28-day dry aged fat. Unlike Umami Burger which adds ground fish heads to its patty to achieve its namesake flavor, Cimino lets the natural decomposition of the meat release its glutamate-rich amino acids. The combination of the fresh grind and mellowed fat yields a patty of unparalleled depth and flavor. The garnishes are succinct: crisp, house-brined pickles and a grill sweetened red onion balance the burger and each other perfectly. A modest portion of melted pimento cheese completes the ensemble. Inspired by his North Carolina upbringing, Cimino’s spread is made from sharp cheddar cheese, mayonnaise, roasted red peppers, Worcestershire sauce, and molasses. In an inspired, Southern twist, the soft but durable buns bare baked fresh from a puree of caramelized sweet potatoes and brushed with butter before serving.

It is an immensely satisfying, engaging, and somewhat playful burger, and easily one of the top two or three in the City.

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The Creative Lesson

Everything is a philosophy. The pimento cheese burger at ABV truly is astonishing. My teeth hadn't even come together on my first bite when I knew it was something special. Everything about it is so finely tuned that its flavor is only subtly unfamiliar; it tastes new and nostalgic at the same time. In many ways it has precedents, but everything about it is also delightfully new.

Coming off a creative week in which any departure from aethetic ‘norms’ was met with resistence and fear, ABV’s burger was the ideal antidote. At the risk of sounding like a lunatic, I felt intellectually engaged by the burger. It adheres to—and advocates—a philosophy. Decoding its principles is part of the enjoyment.

That, I think, is a lesson for all of us: Everything is a philosophy. The things we make and how we make them—no matter how seemingly insignificant—are a philosophy about ourselves. They declare our values, our ethics, and our aesthetics. The more conscious we are of that, the more responsibility we take for it, the better and more meaningful our work will be.

No. 29: Back to Basics

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ I live 2,912 miles from the nearest Shake Shack — about seven hours door-to-counter by plane or 43 hours by car. It’s worth the trip.

Shake Shack is Danny Meyer’s modern answer to the traditional roadside diner. With 25 James Beard Foundation awards to his name, Meyer is most often celebrated for his New York hotspots Union Square Cafe and Gramercy Tavern. With Shake Shack, he’s made his commitment to quality, contemporary American fare accessible to a broader audience. 

There’s nothing fancy about the Shackburger. There’s no spin or gimmick—just a straightforward, honest-to-goodness burger. Here’s how it breaks down:

The Bun
Shake Shack serves its burgers on potato rolls from Martin’s Famous Pastry Shoppe. I’m not the one saying they’re famous, that’s actually their name. Buttered and lightly toasted, the bread has a delicate burger-side crunch; topside they practically melt away. It’s a contrast you notice immediately, and one you appreciate throughout the experience.

The Patty
The exact makeup of a Shackburger patty is, of course, a guarded secret. Reportedly, it’s about 50% sirloin, 25% chuck and 25% brisket. Other sources claim it’s mostly brisket. Whatever the ratios, it is appropriately fatty, hot, and delicious. The patties are smashed on the grill, giving them a crisp, salty crust that properly seals the flavors and juices inside. 

The Cheese
Nothing but good ol’ American ‘cheese’ here of course. It’s smooth and creamy and salty and melts beautifully into the nooks and crannies of the Shackburger’s perfectly imperfect patty.

Toppings
Again, Shake Shack sticks to the classics: slightly bitter green leaf lettuce, a couple of slices of sweet Roma tomato, and “Shacksauce”. The sauce is a combination of house-made mayonnaise, ketchup, and mustard, along with some other unnamed (but welcome) flavors.

The Typography
True to its fare, the Shake Shack identity achieves an unambiguous point of view using a few basic ingredients. The primary logotype and exterior signage are set in Neutraface. Based on the typography of Richard Neutra, it’s a perfect pairing for the chain’s architecturally-assertive branding. It works terrifically at scale and is surprisingly adaptable across cultures and locales (as of this writing, Shake Shack has 56 outposts in locations as varied as New York, London, Istanbul, Moscow, and Dubai). On its menus, packaging and interior signage, Neutraface is improbably paired with a quirky script called Galaxie Cassiopeia and supported by the plainspoken, stalwart workhorse, Futura. These three typefaces artfully express the ethos of both the burger and the brand. Neutraface is the bun: sturdy, reliable and architectural. Futura is the patty: basic but bold. Galaxie is the lettuce: wavy, quirky and fresh. To the layperson this comparison may seem like a stretch, but designers know these choices to be purposefully expressive. 

The Details
Simple, almost coarsely-drawn icons round out the identity with the same commitment to funky minimalism that pervades the brand. A bright green (Pantone 369 to my eye) serves as the only accent color, adding a vibrant, pop sensibility to the cool, post-modern-deco architecture. The product names are unapologetically labored (Shackburger, Shackstack, Dogmeister, etc.), but have an inviting quirkiness that keeps the brand lighthearted and fun. With a following approaching cult status, Shake Shack’s approach to merchandising is purposefully malleable and collaborative (yo, Shake Shack, let’s collaborate!). 

In sum, they do everything right—no surprise with Pentagram’s Paula Scher at the helm and designers Lenny Naar and Andrew Freeman on the team.

The result is well-balanced and unpretentious. In some ways it’s nostalgic, in others entirely new. It tastes and looks and feels like your idealized memory of that amazing burger you think you remember from a childhood road trip, but which has eluded you ever since. Judging by the lines that wind out the door, there are plenty of others as hungry as I am to taste the difference good design makes.

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The Creative Lesson

Taste makes the difference. Shake Shack is a case study in excellence. So often in our culture we conflate our distinction between high and low brow with a distinction between high and low quality. Here’s a restaurateur who made his name serving $34 entrees, but who brings the same commitment to quality to a $5 burger. Danny Meyer was smart enough to realize what so many others don’t—that a cheap price point doesn‘t have to mean a cheap experience. Rather than going downmarket on the design, he partnered with one of—if not the—most renowned design firms in the world to help define and articulate his brand. He invested in design and architecture to distinguish Shake Shack from its then and future competitors. The branding is smart and different and effective—and a big reason why the business is evolving from a single location to worldwide empire.

No. 20: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ 4505 Burgers & BBQ makes a damn good cheeseburger. Some even call it the Best Damn Cheeseburger. Specifically, that’s what 4505 Meats calls it.

Chef Ryan Farr selects his dry-aged, grass-fed beef from Magruder Ranch, butchers it on-site, and grinds it no more than 12 hours before cooking. Each 1/4" thick patty weighs in at four ounces before hitting the grill, where it sizzles for 90 seconds per side before being dusted with 1/4 teaspoon of finely-ground salt. 

4505’s deliciously savory buns are made in-house. Aside from the requisite flour, yeast, egg and milk, Farr adds sliced scallions and pecorino to the mix. The scallions add a mild pungency, while the cheese lends the bun its creamy texture. The fresh-baked buns are brushed with butter and grilled (also for 90 seconds) until they develop a crust firm enough to withstand the juice that oozes from the tender patty.

Topping-wise, 4505 keeps things fairly traditional. Mayonnaise, sweet relish, ketchup and mustard are combined into a single sauce in a sequentially diminishing ratio of 2:1 (half as much relish as mayonnaise, half as much ketchup as relish, etc.). A slice of iceberg lettuce mediates the transition from burger to bun, aided by thinly sliced red onions and a 1/16" thick slice of gruyere. The cheese is actually added to the patty after the first flip, allowing it to melt perfectly over the meat. Finally, a 1/4" slice of tomato is added, but only if they’re in season. 

In a later review I may address the thinness of onions, but the standout ingredient here is the missing tomato.

As noted in our review of Mission Beach Café, even a tiny tomato can play a vital role. Indeed, 13 of the 20 burgers we’ve reviewed to date have included some variety of solanum lycopersicum. For some it is integral to the burger concept. For most it feels more like an obligatory add-on.

After taking so much care to personally select their beef, bake their own bread, and cook and dress their burger to such exacting standards, 4505 Burgers & BBQ’s conditional commitment to the tomato is as understandable as it is laudable. I’m not going to get into just how awful off-season tomatoes are, but Barry Estabrook’s book, Tomatoland, will turn you off of them forever. Imagine tomatoes grown in sterilized, plastic-covered sand, sprayed weekly with any number of 110 different pesticides, herbicides and fungicides, picked while they are hard and green, then inundated with ethylene gas (to turn them red) and you begin to understand why chef Farr refuses to desecrate his burgers with them. It’s part of his unwavering dedication to quality and control, and one more reason that the Best Damn Cheeseburger just may just be the best damn cheeseburger.

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The Creative Lesson

Beware the weakest link. I once worked on an annual report for an oncology-focused biotech company. The content was based around heroic profiles of the scientists, researchers and caregivers involved with their clinical trials. Early concept layouts included dramatic full-page portraits with each profile.

I spent a week obsessively kerning the text (yes, every word), hanging punctuation (in Quark 4.5 mind you!), and meticulously eliminating every word break. We worked closely with the printer to test quad-tone effects for the portraits, find the right combination of paper weights, and experiment with metallic inks on uncoated stock.

The piece earned me my first Type Directors Club award, and to this day I’m deeply embarrassed by it.

At the eleventh hour, the client decided that the people they’d tapped for the profiles were too important to be troubled for a photo shoot. Instead they had them send us snapshots of themselves which we then blew up to the full-page format they’d fallen in love with. The results were hideous. Back then I didn’t have the courage (or the authority) to insist on a change of direction—nor the insight to realize that everyone would be better off if we just eliminated the photos altogether.

For those interested in excellence, only excellence can survive; design, after all, is only as strong as its weakest element. From now on I’m calling these destructive elements killer tomatoes.

No. 15: Raising the Bar

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Bar Jules offers a stunningly confident, stridently minimal, deliciously simple burger. The patty is a blend of 70% lean muscle and 30% fat, butchered and ground from local grass-fed livestock. The flavor is remarkably complex, presenting an almost gamey aroma and a rich, earthy flavor with traces of smoke and salt. Except for the air and earth of the Marin Sun Farms rangeland on which it was raised, the meat is otherwise unseasoned.

The bun is airy but firm. I’m not sure what else to say about it but that it was sliced in two, dabbed with a little olive oil, and toasted on the grill. The blackened edges deliver a pleasing crunch. A judicious spread of house-made aioli adds a Provençal twist to the ensemble. 

That, my friends, is the totality of the Bar Jules burger. Aside from the aioli it comes undressed—though small dishes of ketchup and mustard are provided by request. We added the latter. There is no lettuce, but the burger is served beside a “little salad.” It too is exceedingly simple, consisting only of lettuce and tossed with a dressing of (I’m guessing) olive oil, lemon juice, and diced capers. It has a clean, acidic bite that pairs brilliantly with the savory meat. 

Improbably, the Bar Jules burger is one of the best I've ever tasted. It is the ultimate commitment to culinary minimalism—unfussy, undecorated, unassuming, uncompromising and unashamed of its nudity. It has no tomato, no pickles, no onions, no cheese, no fries, and it makes no apologies. It’s just meat. Period. On a bun. Period. Any questions?

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The Creative Lesson

Simplify. Our Studio is governed by a simple design philosophy: find the simplest possible solution, which is also interesting. Though many strive for it, many designers are also scared of simplicity. Simplicity requires clarity—not just of expression, but of content and of purpose. It requires identifying the most important thing, dissecting it, considering it from multiple perspectives, and rebuilding it into a more essential and more elegant version of itself. It is the marriage of conceptual purity and impeccible craft. There is no room for error, no ornament behind which to hide.

The Bar Jules burger is unequivocal in its commitment to this ethos—a commitment which is supported by quality content and expert execution. It is a kindred spirit in all I strive for in design.

NB: Nathan gives the Bar Jules burger three stars. We also disagree sharply on Umami Burger, which will be the focus of the next review. Stay tuned for a bonus post exploring the distance between our divergent opinions.

No. 11: A Machine Made of Words

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Meet our first five star burger, courtesy of Rosamunde.

In his introduction to The Wedge the poet William Carlos Williams writes, “There’s nothing sentimental about a machine...A poem is a small (or large) machine made of words. When I say there’s nothing sentimental about a poem I mean that there can be no part, as in any other machine, that is redundant.” This describes perfectly my feelings about the cheeseburger at Rosamunde. It is an exacting harmony of flavors and textures—a formal invention made of familiar parts but resolved into something exquisitely new. 

The bun—something between an english muffin and an onion roll—is surprisingly pleasing given its density. Charred and crispy around the edges and glutinously chewy at its center, it has the fortitude required to support the nearly half-pound patty all-beef patty. The patty is a hefty, gas-grilled affair. Its skin is seared. Its flesh is hot. Its heart is perfectly pink. The meat is lightly seasoned, but picks up a deliciously honest flavor from the grill. Rosamunde dresses their burger with a generous slab of cheddar and modest servings of lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and onions, the latter of which are scraps from their primary business—sausage making. The onions are grilled just short of translucent, striking the perfect balance between tender and crisp. Foreshadowed by the onion-dotted bun, the grill-sweetened onions complement the tartness of the pickles—the final cog in a finely-crafted machine.

Despite the sausage maker’s four locations (two in San Francisco, one each in Oakland and Brooklyn), the Rosamunde burger remains elusive. They only make cheeseburgers, only serve them at their Haight Street location (and only Tuesdays), and only make 200 of them. The restaurant only has five seats, but you’re welcome to enjoy your lunch next door at the Tornado Bar.

Three people work the tiny kitchen. One rings up orders, one does nothing but grill, a third does nothing but assemble. Each approaches their task with singular dedication. The cook is rigorously attentive to his patties but with jazz-like improvisation, making constant tiny adjustments that seem rooted more in intuition than precision. The builder dresses each bun with focus and flourish, creating rows of nearly identical but distinctly individual burgers-in-waiting. There’s no denying the efficiency of the operation, but the motives seem based upon expertise rather than just expediency. Like the burger, the kitchen is a great complementary machine—each element a small but essential part of a larger whole.

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The Creative Lesson

Specialize. In design there are specialists and there are generalists. One of the reasons that Rosamunde’s burger is so excellent is because it is the sum of specializations. Each part—whether an ingredient, a technique, a technician or an artisan—plays a small but critical part. I’ve watched a lot of people make a lot of burgers and I’ve yet to see any made with the specialized care that goes into a Rosamunde burger.

The grill guy just grills. That’s all he does. Grill. There’s only one thing he has to do, and so he does it well. Likewise with the builder. When your only job is to arrange three vegetables and a fruit on a piece of bread, you have the time to turn transform it from a task to a craft. In other words, find that one thing you do better than anyone else. Do that thing, then surround yourself with others who are the best at what they do.

No. 6: Say it Ain’t So, Joe

★ ★ ★ (+ ★ ★) Joe’s Cable Car doesn’t make a great burger. They make a decent burger. Maybe even a good burger, but it’s not as great as the hype and Guy Fieri would have you believe. I feel bad writing this for a few reasons. Not the least of these is that Joe is right here, working restaurant just as he has for the past 50 years. He’s 75 years old now, and next month the landmark restaurant that bears his name will close for good. Most restaurants don’t make it five years, let alone 50, but Joe kept it in the family, kept it small and made it work.

Judged solely on taste, texture, and appearance, “Joe’s Cable Fresh Ground Beef Steak” is a solid three-star burger, but I’m going to give it five. Three of the stars are for flavor. The other two are for integrity. 

If you have the chance to visit Joe’s Cable Car before it closes on March 16 make sure you take a close look. Past all the neon and mirrors and kitsch you’ll see something extraordinary in the the far corner of the restaurant, just next to the kitchen. It’s a butcher shop. While other burger joints are unpacking pre-made patties or cartons of ground beef, Joe is carving and grinding his own. Next, he does two things that defy convention: first, he uses choice cuts of ribeye steak. Second, he trims off most of the fat. Most burgers are about 20% fat but Joe’s are closer to 6–8% (and consequently have about the same number of calories as a chicken breast). The meat is coarse-ground by hand to retain its distinctive texture, dusted with a little salt and pepper, and slapped on a sizzling hot grill. They cook them medium rare, and despite the relatively low fat content Joe’s burgers are plenty juicy. They’re not oh-my-god-you-have-to-try-this good, but they’re certainly a few cuts above your typical diner burger.

Aside from its longevity, its butcher shop, its family ownership and Joe’s personal hand in everything, perhaps the most remarkable thing about Joe’s Cable Car are the reasons behind its closing. Joe’s isn't being forced out of operation by an opportunistic landlord (though rumor has it the shop will be demolished to make way for new condos). Sales are strong (up to 2,000 burgers a week), so it’s not a money thing either. Nope, Joe’s is closing for just one reason; It’s time.

“I’m 75 years old,” Joe Obegi explained in a recent interview with Inside Scoop, “I have health problems. I didn’t want to suddenly get in big trouble and close overnight. So we decided to pick a date...and now we know.” In the interview he goes on to explain that he has a number of regulars and tourists that drive considerable distances for the Joe’s experience. “I just don't want to disappoint anyone,” he says. 

Not only can we respect that, but it made our burgers taste just a little bit better too. It takes a lot of courage and a lot of humility to close a business. It takes even more to close when you're still on top. 

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The Creative Lesson

When the going gets good, the good get going. At the start of this review I thought it would be leading up to a lesson in authorship. Some designers are like conductors, directing various instruments to cohesive harmony. They hire photographers and illustrators and letterers and copywriters, etc. Others are like Joe. They take control of the content and the execution. They select their own meat, trim their own fat, and shape their own patties. Both approaches have their merits and their limitations. Perhaps another burger will help discern them.

But the unique lesson here is about self-awareness. Every career has its arc. To varying degrees every creative practioner has their emergence, their ascendance, their peak, and their plateau. Most, unfortunately, also have their demise—that slow awkward retreat from relevance usually evidence by an ever-tightening grip on nostalgia.

At the recent AGI conference in London, Rick Pynor asked Peter Saville why he stopped designing Album covers. “I’m 50,” Saville answered, “Designing album covers is a young man’s game. I have no business doing that anymore.”

Youth isn’t always the answer, and I have great reverence for the wisdom that comes with time and practice. Sometimes that wisdom includes having the perspective to quit while you’re on top.