Function Follows Fun

Does form follow function? I thought about this while wandering M+ with friends visiting from out of town. I'm not normally a museum person, but there are times that justify going—like how I found myself thrifting earlier this year, unexpectedly.

The phrase "form follows function" is a design principle stating that the appearance and structure of a building or object should primarily relate to its intended purpose.

When you walk into a museum, it's usually organized around a limited-time special exhibit and a permanent collection. This time at M+, though? Not what I expected. I only noticed when I looked at the map.

"How interesting," I thought—exhibits designed to elicit emotions like "Joy," "Doubt," or "Sadness." No, I'm not talking about Pixar's Inside Out, but rather what Alain de Botton of The School of Life advocates for in "Art as Therapy." The gist: he proposes redesigning museums as therapeutic spaces, using art as a tool to console, guide, and improve viewers' lives—addressing psychological frailties rather than just providing historical context.

Did I address my own psychological canyons of doubt and despair during my time at M+? Probably not. But what an interesting thought experiment: how does the organization—the form—of something shape its purpose? Does function follow form, rather than the other way around?

If form can shape how we emotionally experience art, maybe it works the same way with something even more primal—like getting a stubborn baby to eat.

For some reason, this got me thinking about my baby nephew. The little man is an Energizer Bunny—he bounces from room to room, pointing at ceiling fans, mesmerized by the low melodic hum of a dryer in its final spin cycle. He will literally do anything and everything except what you'd expect a baby to do: eat.

According to the pediatrician, he's a bit underweight for his age, and the only way to catch up is to eat more. Now, I've never had an issue with eating more—my problem is the exact opposite: knowing when to stop eating.

So to convince him, we've resorted to mimicking choo-choo sounds or a sputtering airplane engine to "land" the food into his mouth. Even then, we have to chew dramatically enough for him to copy us so he knows how to swallow. I thought all of this was intuitive, but I'm realizing—maybe as an adult looking back—that perhaps it isn't as natural as I once assumed.

Now that I think about it: would I have enjoyed sushi as much if it hadn't come on a conveyor belt the first time I tried it? I might appreciate omakase now, but honestly, I still get a kick out of ordering sushi on an iPad and watching it arrive on a Shinkansen model train. Choo-choo, next stop—my table.

Food should be fun. Food should be enjoyable. This isn't the type of blog where I describe extracting the essence of an heirloom tomato via centrifuge, à la Alinea. This is the type of blog where I tell you which dinosaur-shaped nuggets pair best with which McDonald's sauces. T-Rexes with BBQ or Pterodactyls with Sweet and Sour? Research pending—stay tuned.

The presentation of something matters as much as the thing itself. Caviar on a mother-of-pearl spoon? Eh. Caviar on a chicken nugget? Hell yes.

If food is fun, people eat more of it. Simple as that. So simple and intuitive that my baby nephew gets it on the spot.

For those of you who read my previous issue, you know I'm trying to bring more in-person experiences to 2026. Thank you to everyone who filled out the food tour interest form—I'm excited to host them. But alas, most signups are from people who aren't in Hong Kong. So in addition to tours, I'm happy to say that dinner parties are also on the menu for the Backyard Izakaya experience.

If the function of Backyard is to value more in-person experiences offline, then the form—whether it's a food tour or a dinner party—shouldn't matter too much, as long as the end goal is the vibes.

This year is about experimentation and doing new things, seeing what form Backyard Izakaya can take while still maintaining the soul of the publication. I probably won't be making food for a dinner party designed to make you experience "Doubt," "Anxiety," or "Sadness." But what I do know is that the food will be good—and ideally, a bit fun.

Coming up next week: a very special American '70s dinner party, complete with jello molds, dishes named after Roman mythology, and inverted desserts. But in the meantime, hope you all get to enjoy your bullet train sushi.

Savoring this moment with you,

Kevin L