Why Gen Z is flocking to a restaurant most of them never grew up with.

Upon entering the Rainforest Café, I was greeted by a talking tree that rattled off a wealth of information about plants. Pumped fog and canned thunder boomed as a hostess led me through an aquarium arch to our table. I was sitting in front of a giant bar topped with a mushroom, next to a chest-beating monkey. The Amazon wonderland was in a modest suburban strip mall in Edison, New Jersey, and I was struck by how little had changed since my childhood. The only difference being that I was now old enough to order a Mongoose Mai Tai.

Of course, some of the fear can be attributed to nostalgia. It’s a powerful signifier of childhood for a generation of middle-class, environmentally conscious millennials like me, who once thought saving the Earth was as simple as sharing a bowl of Python pasta. But the appeal goes beyond that, transcending fond teenage memories, especially for members of Gen Z who never had the chance to experience it the first time.

The Rainforest Café recently underwent a major cultural reevaluation. For example, earlier this year, a April Fools Tweet The official account of the Empire State Building discussed an exciting restoration opportunity: New York City’s most iconic building would now be home to the “world’s tallest” Rainforest Café. Although savvy commenters weren’t fooled by the date of the post, they were disappointed that they couldn’t feast on jungle steak alongside animatronic gorillas. Faced with the overwhelming response, the restaurant and famous skyscraper granted the Internet’s wish six months later and a pop-up Rainforest Café opened on the roof of the Empire State Building for a weekend , making their mascot Ozzie the orangutan one of the first monkeys to grace the building since King Kong.

On TikTokcreators reconstitute THE delight that only a talking tree and canned thunder can provoke, oohs and ahhs of false terror as the lights flicker amidst the faux greenery. Perhaps, however, a viral tweet Summed it up perfectly: “Rainforest Cafe understood that humans must feel fear when eating a wedged salad. » People are always fascinated and eager to return to, or at least engage in, a restaurant that essentially doubles as a college birthday party dream.

In 2022, YouTubers Eddy Burback and Ted Nivison documented their cross-country road trip to every Rainforest Café in North America. At the time, in their early 20s, the filmmakers weren’t even alive when the first Rainforest Café was built in 1994. The journey was fueled by a bold premise, a deep friendship and way too many servings of safari fries – and viewers were hooked, generating more than 10 million views.

It’s a bit ironic that one of the most ’90s places on Earth is a predetermined internet sensation. But ultimately, the Rainforest Café’s virality is a consequence of its design. A rare vestige of the Clinton administration, predating the reaction video industrial complex and yet entirely built for it.

As might be expected, the story of the Rainforest Café began as a fever dream. Steven Schussler, an advertising executive turned entrepreneur whose projects often confined to Wonka-esque, told me that he launched the restaurant in the early 90s using his savings to transform his house into the fake biome of his dreams. Yes, that included thunderstorms, 3,700 extension cords, and even live turtles and baboons. Every weekend, he would show potential investors around his house in hopes of finding support for his dream project.

He attracted viral attention from annoyed neighbors, local media and even the DEA, who raided his property on suspicion of growing marijuana after accumulating what Schussler told me was ” the highest electric bill in the state.” Yet it took the restaurant four years to finally find financing, with the first restaurant opening in 1994 in Minnesota’s Mall of America.

What it did was set a precedent for experiential eating, tailor-made for an iteration of the internet that didn’t yet exist. It’s an astonishing undertaking that even Schussler himself marvels at.

“Everything and everyone is betting against me,” he said. “Every night I looked in the mirror and cried and laughed. You have to have endurance, determination, courage. You must be able to lose friends. It took me a lifetime. »

But, with only 16 locations remaining in North America (Schussler sold Rainforest Cafe to Landry’s Inc. in 2000), it’s becoming as endangered as the rainforest itself. In some ways, it was still a product of its time, firmly rooted in Planet Hollywood excesses and hyper-themed gimmicks. It was destined to thrive during the novelty restaurant boom of the 1990s. From the model-backed Fashion Cafe to the ESPN Zone to Hulk Hogan’s Pastamania, it was an era in which no pop culture niche was free from a culinary experience.

But even among its competitors, Rainforest Cafe stands out for something. Other restaurants like the Hard Rock Café or Planet Hollywood relied on the aura and proximity of celebrities to attract customers. Walls draped with movie props, signed jerseys and autographed guitars were the main draw. In the age of social media, eating alongside Indiana Jones’ whip or the steering wheel of Titanic was about as close as you can get to your favorite cinematic heroes and idols.

It was the last gasp of an era where the boundary between consumer and star was not only hyper-demarcated but also rarely crossed. Thirty years later, with direct access to your favorite celebrity’s inner monologue at the click of a button, few people want to eat a bowl of spaghetti a booth away from Slash’s top hat, let alone hang out. embark on a cross-country road trip to the last remaining Hard Rock Cafés.

Prior to its acquisition, Rainforest Cafe had live, cage-free tropical birds, a feat that required Schussler to develop an entirely new HVAC system to meet health and safety standards. (“Who wants to watch birds behind glass? No one,” Schussler explained.)

It is this unprecedented access to novelty and exoticism that he cherished above all else. Not just watching a show, but being immersed inside. In this regard, Rainforest is the progenitor of today’s model of experiential restaurants: pop-ups that serve not only as visually dazzling, Instagram-worthy installations, but also as interactive experiences in which the consumer plays an active role. It’s no surprise that digital natives are drawn to a space that predicts the immersive, boastful, content-ready food spaces they’re so accustomed to.

The Rainforest Café has always been more than a place to have a meal. It was a place of adventure. And it was one of the first restaurants to actively promise escapism accompanied by fries. It’s not that different from how places like the ice cream museumwhich presents itself as a “magical play space” with unlimited ice cream. Bonbontopiawhich has popped up in cities as disparate as Scottsdale, Ariz., and Bloomington, Minn., follows the rules of the Rainforest Cafe playbook with its brand of sickly sweet sensory immersion.

The significance, however, goes beyond the visual appeal of these experiences. This is how they translate into valuable social currency online. As the likes pile up, it’s hard not to be envious, or at least intrigued, by the influencers sprawled atop a lollipop swing. TikTok. These are selfie stations, designed for social posturing, with an accessory snack. These spaces allow consumers to be (or at least act like) a celebrity, centering themselves as lifestyle influencers, just as Schussler imagined himself 30 years ago.

The Rainforest Café resonates 30 years later because it works in much the same way, and arguably always has, allowing the consumer to create endless content in a new environment, topped with a touch of eco-saviorism. A backdrop constructed for social performativity. There’s little difference between the exaggerated terror of a thunderstorm reaction video or the staged awe displayed while frolicking in a ball pit filled with nuggets. The emotional impulse may differ but the artifice remains the same.

This is not to say that these experiences lack joy or self-awareness. When Ted Nivison reached the top of the Empire State Building pop-up, the restaurant posted a Instagram Reel of his festive embrace with their mascot Cha! Cha! the tree frog with the caption “Our boy has come home”. A real victory for the YouTuber himself, for the brand and for the Internet.

“It’s amazing,” Schlusser said of the restaurant’s virality. “There are a thousand lessons we are still learning from the Rainforest Café.” But it’s no surprise that the restaurant has come back to life.

As the sparklers burst from my volcanic chocolate cake amid a menagerie of jungle creatures, as I first experienced decades ago, I realized something: the ingredients of its viral success were always there from the start. with.