A couple weeks ago, I had lunch in the future while visiting my past. I had visited my friends
Bob and Kevin at the shiny new Hearst Tower. When I worked at Esquire Magazine in 1999, our offices were on W. 55th St right across from the soup Nazi (from Seinfeld) storefront. We had the coolest office that used to be a parking garage. There were two floors with high industrial ceilings and tons of space. Bob’s office in the research department was in the library that held stacks and stacks of amazing vintage Esquires filled with those famous Vargas illustrations and the writing of legends like Hemingway and Fitzgerald. The magazine stacks were the best place to take a nap, especially once that red bean bag chair was sent to the office. But like all good things, my time there came to an end in 2001 for another magazine for more money and better hours. Esquire moved offices first to 57th St. and now to the Tower where all the Hearst rags are published.
Like most new architecture in NYC, the skyscraper is at first hideous, then you just get used to the damn thing. The sun’s glare on the beehive looking building was blinding, so I didn’t snap a picture, but you get the idea. It’s a bright vision of the future. Part mall, part campus, part torture chamber. Just kidding, it’s nice. To visit. Esquire’s floor is nice. Lots of glass, lots of light, very tidy. I missed the funk of the old place, but I’m trying to get over nostalgia.
As for the cafeteria, well, it was crowded. Once we got our food, we stood around with our trays like junior high nerds looking for a table. At least there were a lot of food choices — sandwich bar, sushi bar, stir fry station, burger area. But the shortest lines were at the main steam table where a huge salad bar is laid out with a couple of hot entrees. There was some sort of creamy mushroom casserole and chicken breast. We all got the chicken. The chicken was only a little dry. I liked the nutty wheatberry salad and how can you go wrong with bagged greens? All in all, it was pretty good for 40 cents a pound. The novelty would wear off if I worked at Hearst, but the food was much better than at CondeNast where there’s no garlic allowed because the CEO hates garlic.
