PHOTO COURTESY OF THE NATIONAL COMEDY CENTER

On my second visit to the National Comedy Center, I was transfixed by two chairs and a couple of cheap tray tables.

The captivating, technologically marvelous institution isn’t primarily a repository for artifacts, as I discovered during my first visit back in January. It has treasures, to be sure — Andy Kaufman’s Elvis outfit, the infamous Puffy Shirt from “Seinfeld,” George Carlin’s handwritten notes — but they’re not the main attraction at the museum. The clear headliners among this lineup are the many interactive exhibits that cater content to each individual visitor; by selecting your favorite comedians, movies and more when you arrive, the museum quite literally adjusts to your taste as you explore.

I made my second trip this past weekend as part of a day trip organized by Pittsburgh Magazine and the National Comedy Center, leading a group of contest winners and invited funny folks to Jamestown, New York. En route, I extolled the interactivity and high-tech exhibits at the museum. (I had plenty of time to do so; we got a flat tire around Grove City. What’s a comedy road trip without some unexpected setbacks?)

Privately, though, I wanted to make time for an exhibit exploring the legacy and influence of Carl Reiner. The writer, performer, director and producer spanned modern comedy history, from the earliest days of television to the era of social media; he was active on Twitter until his death in 2020 at age 98.

Throughout his life, he also remained inseparable from Mel Brooks, his best friend and frequent collaborator. The two comedy legends would spend almost every evening at Reiner’s house, eating and watching “Jeopardy!” and old movies.

I had heard the legends of these daily meetings on podcasts and in books and articles: two absolute titans of entertainment calmly sitting and enjoying life well into their 90s. (Brooks just turned 99 and is still working; he announced a sequel to his spoof “Spaceballs” last month.) I frequently thought about these evenings — and wondered what movies Brooks and Reiner were watching.

At the National Comedy Center, I saw the chairs.

In the Carl Reiner exhibit, they have the chairs the best friends would sit in, as well as the tattered, old tray tables they’d use for meals. (The latter are old enough to qualify as museum pieces regardless of their brush with fame.) Suddenly, I was giving life to the vision that had been in my head — able to not just think about a place and time, but truly picture it.

That’s what the best museums do. We have innumerable places like this in Pittsburgh institutions; I get the same feeling looking over the pens and paper on Adelaide Frick’s desk at Clayton or by looking at furniture used by Abraham Lincoln on his Pittsburgh visits at the Heinz History Center. I can even look 19,000 years into the past at Meadowcroft and imagine people gathered around the fire.

Interactive and high-tech exhibits make a museum or other institution dazzling. But it’s often the ability to simply regard something remarkable that makes one truly memorable. Fortunately for visitors, the National Comedy Center — and plenty of other favorites in Pittsburgh — have both elements.

I forgot to get a good picture of the chairs. I’d buy it on a poster. And I couldn’t help but notice that Reiner’s chair looked cozy, while Brooks’ looked a bit stiff. Seventy years of friendship, and Carl Reiner couldn’t get his best friend a cozy chair? I can hear Mel complaining about it now!