Itamae San: the Sushi Game for Type Nerds.

Holding onto Blaktur

Let’s start with the typeface I alluded to a moment ago, one which I have an unreasonable affinity for: Blaktur. Designed by Ken Barber and released by House Industries in 2007, Blaktur is a playful subversion of German textura that wears its heritage on its sleeve; a blackletter that eschews austerity in favor of cheekiness.

You would never expect to find Gutenberg in his workshop, painstakingly setting folio after folio of the Old Testament in Blaktur. But if you saw it splattered across a flyer for the local all-ages show, you wouldn’t bat an eye. Blaktur doesn’t take itself seriously as a rule—attested to by the inclusion of a Random Umlaut Generator in the font file—and it can easily overplay its sarcasm, grinning a little too close to your face. So it’s not hard to understand why designers might shy away from the font for all but the most on-the-nose applications.

And yes, I will admit that I’ve had my own doubts about deploying it in the design of a tabletop game about sushi. But I believe it is precisely Blaktur’s non-conformist streak that is key to its (vastly under-appreciated) versatility.

An Elegant Hammer

Do you remember learning about commas? And then, do you remember, for a long, long time afterwards, using them at every, and I mean every, possible, opportunity,,, just to be safe? That’s about how hard I went with Blaktur in those heady university days. Unfettered. I was pretty sure I was the only person using this typeface in association with Japanese cuisine, and there is something intoxicating about knowing you’re truly on the bleeding edge of something like that.

Maybe you’ve gone back and re-read with chagrin some of those old, hiccupy, comma-laden middle school essays of yours? I look back at my college assignment and feel something similar. Blaktur worked great for a large word here and there and it gave a dynamic punch to numbers at a heroic scale, but there were lots of places I probably should have brought in a pinch hitter. Like, for anything you needed to read.

But most importantly—and perhaps most obviously—the more Blaktur there was on the screen, the more undeniably gothic it felt. Typefaces, like tools, are suited to different tasks. Having a hammer, no matter how elegant, doesn’t turn everything into a nail.

Even so, sometimes you do need to deliver an impact. So when it was time to nail down (pun acknowledged) the Itamae San logo, I still loved how Blaktur worked for the wordmark itself. But I knew it was going to need some help if I didn’t want the game to feel like you were rolling sushi in a monastery. I began to look around for a typeface that could share the load.

Lydian to the Rescue

You have consistently seen Lydian throughout your life. Perhaps you didn’t pay much attention for a while. But then, over the last decade you began to notice it quietly infiltrating every single book cover on the end caps of Barnes & Noble.

Maybe you wrote it off as a passing fad, like Museo (yeah I said it). But go next door to the Half Price Books and roam the isles for a few minutes. You will quickly realize that Lydian has been gracing book covers for a very long time.

Since 1938 to be exact, when it was released by American Type Founders. Designed by Warren Chappell—who must have found extreme satisfaction setting his own name in the face—it’s a unique mix of calligraphic and humanistic qualities. I promise it is featured on something in your bookshelves right now. Especially if you like Robert McCloskey or Nancy Drew.

I was thumbing through the New Arrivals bin of a record shop here in Poulsbo when Lydian first leapt to the forefront of my consciousness. There it was, writ large across the cover of the Young Fresh Fellows’ debut album, “The Fabulous Sounds of the Pacific Northwest.” It was like seeing it for the first time.

Until then I hadn’t noticed the clear similarities present in the shapes of many of the letters: the slight flourish at the apex of the “A” and the “N”; the sharp chisel in the sweep of the “C” and the “O.” The diamond dot atop the “i” and “j.” These are of course the calligraphic qualities that give Lydian its distinct personality and set it apart from other humanist typefaces. They’e also the qualities that allow Lydian to exert a surprisingly positive influence on that young, rowdy typeface we were talking about earlier.

In an article for her always wonderful Font Review Journal, Bethany Heck characterizes Harbour as “Blackletter Lydian”, a description I find apt. Her point is that while Lydian is classified as a humanist san serif, both typefaces share a fundamental basis in calligraphy. Indeed, Chappell studied under renowned German calligrapher and OG blackletterer, Rudolf Koch.

Dialing Back the Black

I’d venture in turn to describe Lydian as “Blackletter Optima.” Optima, designed by Hermann Zapf (speaking of famous German calligraphers) and released by the Stempel type foundry in 1958, is a graceful humanist sans that, to me,  feels like an energetic nephew of Lydian. It follows a similar genetic arc before bending toward its own characteristic restraint.

As you know from experience, if not esoteric swotting, blackletter forms are generally considered less legible. Optima however is a great choice for setting clear, friendly copy, and you’ll find it on the back of the Itamae San game box for just that reason.

As logo companions though, Blaktur and Optima feel at odds with one another, like a couple who can’t decide what movie they want to watch. Blaktur wants an action/comedy. Optima just wants something heartfelt, maybe with Anthony Hopkins in it (but not Thor again).

Lydian on the other hand compliments the angles of Blaktur rather than casting them as parody. In fact, the quiet elegance that comes so naturally to Lydian lends a touch of refinement to Blaktur, too.

Lydian’s deferential subtlety when paired with the bombastic Blaktur highlights how well this American classic strikes a balance between restraint and personality, or as I like to say, quirk and work.

A Very American Tribute

The actual components of Itamae San feature two brilliant typefaces designed by Tobias Frere-Jones: Gotham Narrow and Idlewild. These stalwart friends have stayed with me through iterations of the game both thick and thin. In many ways, I feel we have known each other longer than any one of us has existed.

If you ask my daughter why she chose a particular present for me for father’s day or for my birthday, she will tell you, “You know, because he’s an old-timey guy.” I am a card carrying member of The Ephemera Society. My favorite video game, aesthetically speaking, is Cuphead.

The first time I clapped eyes on Parker Bros’ Monopoly, I fell head-over-heals in love with the design. I was enamored with the property spaces, with their rent prices set in a graceful small caps and fixed like dignified counterweights to the bold blocks of color at the top of each square on the game board. I loved the denseness of the Property Cards themselves; brownstone-inspired placards adorned with wide-set, indecipherable names (what the heck’s a Marvin Gardens?); tables of rents and mortgages made eminently approachable by an early 20th century geometric with a generous x height. I could snuggle them. Many seeds were planted in my young mind that sprouted during my design education and have flowered into the component designs before you today.

Idlewild in particular goes a long way toward capturing the spirit of an American tribute to a Japanese delicacy, encapsulating the hand-painted vernacular of 20th century American typography, while feeling sturdy enough to be carved in counter-relief above any doorway. In promotional designs it plays a role as crucial as Lydian in re-directing Blaktur for good. Idlewild’s striking sharpness contrasts the painterly curve of Blaktur’s edges, helping the latter to suggest broad pen rather than book hand; one shot over iron gall; mahl sticks not swan quills! I digress. I love Idlewild if you couldn’t tell.

Itamae San’s typographic landscape attempts to meld a nostalgic turn-of-the-century American quality with a colorful, intrinsically Asian culinary art form. That it does so, I think,  at least somewhat successfully gives me a real sense of satisfaction and strangely, relief. I am not a sushi chef, after all. I am just a huge fan.