My initial encounters with projects that integrated biophilic design into restaurants left me astonished. Within just a short span of time, my sense of respect toward the ideas behind biophilic design had morphed into something resembling reverence. More times than I can count, I’ve had conversations with projects’ design teams where they question the use of elements that life scientists and environmental psychologists might deem necessary or beneficial. Why would a design team push so vehemently for the inclusion of living, breathing nature? Why include the idea of a natural landscape in some essential way? Or why, vegetative visuals aside, should there be any consideration of providing essential visual breaks in an undulating wall of wood, as seen in a few of the project photos that follow?
My earliest undertakings came as a designer on a bistro in a lively downtown. The local owner wanted to make a place that was memorable and distinct and did a palpably better job at serving its vision than the local kiosks around it. The vision we worked with was simple: to create a dining experience that reflected the owners’ commitment to a locally sourced, farm-to-table ethos. So, the big question was, how do you audibly and visibly differentiate from what otherwise feels like a grain silo in downtown Minneapolis? Because that’s what it felt like to me at the time.
Natural light had to be the superstar of the redesign. The heavy drapery was taken down, and in its place, soft, almost ethereal curtains were hung that now allow only filtered light to enter the dining room without sacrificing any sense of privacy that the patrons might want. We also placed large plants in the window spaces, not only to help mitigate anyverse-architectural issue but also because potted plants are a dining room window’s best friends. However, what was this “natural light being the star” part about? It seemed simple enough: At The Detroit Club, two of dining room windows really were the two most dramatic focal points, so why not use that?
This project has given me many fond memories, but there is one I hold especially close. A few months after the restaurant’s redesign, the owner mentioned that I might like to hear comments the guests were making. She delightedly shared that many guests had been saying how the food had never tasted so fresh and delicious. I couldn’t help but think, “Wow, if the food tastes better, maybe I should take the compliment on aesthetics and run with it!”
Biophilic design in a restaurant affects the creation of an environment that stimulates all of the diners’ senses, making the act of dining something even more profound than merely eating. It becomes an event in which all of the senses participate, and good design surely must start here. After my first project, I was approached by a high-end sushi bar that wanted to make the act of dining feel more organic, more intimate, more redolent of nature—a space in nature, really—in the heart of a city. They were inspired by traditional Japanese design, which is already pretty intimate with nature. But their idea was to take that and make it modern for a city that sometimes forgets nature exists.
My focus began with the materials. As far back as I can remember, I have believed that the tactile experience of the dining environment is just as important as the visual one. Picture yourself sitting at a wooden table where, even now, the life of the tree is somehow present. That is what I want for the patrons of the restaurant. To achieve this, we chose to work with reclaimed wood for the sushi bar, the tables, and just about any other place where there is a surface to touch between the diners and the experience we hope to create.
In addition to the tactile elements, we incorporated stone for the flooring and river pebbles at the edges of the walkways. This natural path not only added texture but also created a unique auditory experience for guests moving through the dining area. The dining space was almost hushed, save for the crunch of the pebbles beneath our guests’ feet. One of our servers mentioned to me later that guests often remarked on how much the footpath contributed to an overall atmosphere of mindfulness—almost as if the restaurant was cocooning them in the tranquil urban alternative of a sacred space.
A biophilic restaurant design requires the right mood. Lighting is key to setting that mood. We strategically used a combination of pendant lights made from bamboo and small, adjustable LED lights to direct attention toward the special features of the restaurant, like the living moss wall that covered an entire side of the dining area. We chose to go softer with the lighting. Our goal was to mimic the appearance of dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of a tree. When I first proposed this concept, the restaurant owner expressed skepticism. “Will it be too dim? Will it look under-lit?” he asked. “What if it seems like we just didn’t get around to lighting the place properly?” After the installation, he admitted that the overall soft light made the restaurant’s guests speak in softer tones, as well as enjoy their dining experience.
A water element was one of the most potent design choices we made for the restaurant. There is now a small pond just inside the entry, filled with koi and very nearly on the verge of being a biotope, given the variety of plants that surround it. The very limited public space in front of this pond—nature trying to take its course inside a very clipped public space—has a spellbinding effect on everyone who sees it. We have consistently observed that people are totally captivated by the sight of koi and the sound of splashing water. Hearing it from the waiting area has become our communal background music.
I have seen on several occasions how the natural elements can affect even the busiest of guests. One of the most memorable instances that really underscored this point was when I had the opportunity to watch a hurried, high-powered group of businesspeople attempt to shove a lunch meeting in between their very full schedules. They entered, looking like what you might see on the cover of “Business Weekly”—briefcases in their hands, cell phones stuffed in their ears, and every other futuristic, productive, power move your imagination might conjure. But they sat by the pond and participated in the great thaw that seems ineluctable when one is near an element of water.
I highlighted the significance of biophilic patterns—organic shapes and designs that mimic natural forms—within the dining area. Hanging from the ceiling, the wooden structures shaped like abstract tree branches did not so much “hold up” the ceiling as they did create a kind of overspace—an overhead canopy—that cast intricate shadows down below, almost as if one were looking up within a forest. The first time we tested the space for forms and lighting, it became clear just how alive and almost sentient the restaurant felt. The guests often commented on the magic that resided within the structures. They couldn’t believe it wasn’t art, but everything pictured here is as real as the restaurant itself.
Later, a server told me that the guests were crazy about the way the ceiling structure created an atmosphere of intimacy. At times, the subtle-lights-and-shadows show made it feel like we were dining under trees at dusk. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized this was an us-and-them situation: the dining “us” having an utterly private experience, but behind a wall on the “them” side, inside a completely open-to-the-public restaurant, was a secret dinner party.
A small, family-run Italian trattoria is a project I’m particularly fond of. They wanted to bring a piece of Tuscany into their restaurant—not just the food but the entire experience of dining under the Tuscan sun. We had the challenge, of course, of working in a densely populated urban area with no real outdoor space to speak of. Still, we made it work—or, rather, we made an experience work within a space. Invoking the sensory and emotional associations that come with outdoor dining in Tuscany is a tall order. Yet, if you can’t do that in a natural way, then what is biophilic design?
We started by constructing a pergola inside the restaurant, over the primary dining area. We hung it with faux grapevines so realistic that the color matched with the real trailing plants and the artificial plants was undetectable to the human eye. Working with a local metalworker, we put together a frame for the pergola that was meant to look as if it could have been repurposed from some old structure in the Mediterranean. And once it was finished and the plants began to fill in their part of the illusion, the pergola transformed the restaurant.
Bringing Tuscany to the diners was achieved through the installation of large hanging baskets filled with fresh herbs like rosemary, basil, and oregano. The kitchen was completely open, allowing for the enticing aromas and the sense of play that was happening just behind the counter. (The chef was busily engaged in folding the requisite 1,000 envelopes for an event that included 1,000 stampede-cooked ribs; 1,000 envelopes were also needed for the free, 1,000 Facebook “likes” promised during the first week of business.) The kitchen was visual and aromatic, very Italian; the cooking was done on a wood-burning grill.
Even the tables were designed with biophilia in mind. The wood was reclaimed oak, which had been crafted by artisans in Pennsylvania into unique pieces of furniture. The table itself had its own biophilic goodness, with each natural imperfection held intact in the handmade forms. We used no tablecloths, allowing the tables to display their raw beauty and wood-ness unfettered. On one of my observation nights, I found myself eavesdropping on a couple seated near me, who had no idea they were part of my research protocol. They were thoroughly enjoying the experience of dining, and what struck me was their rave review of the tables themselves—how much they loved the feel of them.
We took the sensory experience much further and focused on the space’s acoustics. The clattering of dishes and the busy kitchen can make any restaurant feel like an auditory assault, but our trattoria has an entirely different feel. The sound in the space is actually soft. The only noise you might hear comes from the careful construction of a wood- or plant-covered creation that makes no sonic statement at all. The noise level takes a hint from the nature that surrounds the wood-and-plant structure. The sound level is softer, more intimate—a murmur of nature rather than the chaotic din of a busy eatery. You can hear your own voice without raising it too high or being heard too easily.
We also incorporated light changes into the design. For dinners in Tuscany, we often dined as the sun was setting; it was a golden moment to be sure, with the sky shifting through blazing shades of gold, orange, and then the deep blue of twilight. To be able to replicate that feeling in the dining room, we installed a dynamic lighting system that adjusted the natural progression of light hue and intensity to the time of day. By 6:30, the dining room light was at its warmest, inviting the kind of slow meal prep that might accompany a dining experience in Tuscany.
One aspect of the design that drew a great deal of commentary was, perhaps obviously, the play of light. One diner told me that the restaurant’s lighting made her feel as though she had stepped away, completely, from the hectic and very public world of our city’s streets right outside. This light made the restaurant feel unusually bright and alive, at one moment, and then made it seem, in the very next moment, as though the energy of the restaurant itself was just kind of, well, lighting up the space—almost as though humans weren’t necessary for that life force to exist inside the restaurant.
The design certainly gave plenty of attention to the natural aspects of the location. The restaurant had a tiny courtyard that had been a dump, but we turned it into an almost-Somali, almost-calming escape, replete with smells and sights that linked diners to the food they were eating. From the main dining room, you could see straight into the courting courtyard, which was right behind large glass doors. The doors opened wide in the evening, giving the diners the full scents and sights of the herb garden. They almost dined al fresco. I had never experienced vertical dining in such close quarters, but I couldn’t help but love seeing and hearing the diners enjoying their close-to-the-ingredients experience.
The owner’s favorite story concerns a group of regular customers who had been frequenting the establishment long before it underwent its redesign. At first, they expressed some skepticism about the changes—they were fond of the old look and worried it might charm up and die down under the new trappings of a renovated restaurant. But after they dined in the new, much-refreshed space, they recently reported back how much better they felt. It turns out we weren’t just knocking down walls; we were knocking down some insurmountable barriers to establishing the kind of Italian atmosphere that makes certain spaces feel like home. And at least according to these regulars, we accomplished that with the new design.
Designing a biophilic restaurant is more than just creating a pretty space. It’s also about forming connections that engage all of the different senses—everything that makes a restaurant “alive.” And it’s about creating an environment that speaks to our most primal, deep-down connection with nature.
There are many ways you can do this, whether through using natural building materials or focusing on light design in clever ways to mimic the effect of sunlight. One can also use the scent of water—a biophilic element, like trickling water, makes us humans feel calm and at home—even if we’re not on the riverbank. Biophilia works through, and at, many levels—from space to place, from being only human (and thus vulnerable to and constantly in search of nature’s restorative powers, if only we would let it be).
Biophilic design has progressed a long way. I see now that the best projects, the most meaningful, are the successful attempts not to haphazardly incorporate nature but to integrate it into the essential experience that is an indoor space. That is, restaurants designed with biophilic principles don’t just serve food. They serve an experience that feeds the soul and makes every meal more than a moment of ritual consumption, a moment with urban nature—a very ordinary, very special reconnection with the world we so often overlook.
