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Lunch at the Office

What it Used to Be and What it is Now

By Mitchell Slepian

Pre-Covid-19, lunch at the office used to be fun. Most of us ate at our desks. Of course, there were times when we went out to lunch. Either a group from the office went to get out, or we went alone. We used to see which place had the best pizza, burger, pasta, or taco. Sometimes, we would grab something from the salad bar, deli, or fast-food joint, head back to the office, and eat in a conference room, someone’s office, or the break room.

Occasionally, we took someone out to celebrate a birthday, engagement, divorce, or promotion. At times, we met a friend who worked nearby. Or even better, had a lunch date. That was the way to do it. You and the person you were with knew you were on your lunch hour. So, you had a couple of slices and got to know each other. If it worked, you planned something. If it fell into the usual case, you returned to your desk thinking you should have gone to Walgreens at lunchtime.

How COVID-19 Wrecked the Fun Office Lunch

Then came COVID-19. We worked from home and ate in our kitchens, dressed in Yankees or The Cure t-shirts. The Cure or Depeche Mode was cranking. Eventually, we went back to the office. Some went back full-time. Most, like me, are on a hybrid schedule.

Back to Eating at Work

On the days I work in the city, I bring my lunch pail. I don’t slide down my dinosaur-like Fred Flintstone at lunchtime to go on my break and eat a pterodactyl bird or brontoburger. For the most part, I stick to salads. These days, most people bring their lunch. Why? Well, many of the places we used to go to are closed. It is sad to walk down NYC’s streets and see many lunch joints boarded up. Those that are still open are pricier than ever. You can make almost two- or three days’ worth of salads for what they charge for a small one with one or two add-ins. For the record, I preferred the salad bars where the hat, apron, and glove-wearing employee made your salad v. all-you-can-eat, slop everything into a dish salad bar, and weighed at the register stores. Too many people used their grubby hands to load up their bowls.

The Office Breakroom – Scary It Can Be

Let’s discuss the office’s break room. You remember those. It is a tiny or decent-sized room with a refrigerator or two, a filthy microwave, a beat-up toaster oven, a grime-filled sink, a Keurig and water cooler for hot water for the tea drinkers, and cold water to quench your thirst. The vending machines never work. You used to lose your dollar bills. You still lose them. But now you can tap your phone to pay with Apple Pay, and your M&M’s or Pepsi don’t come out of the machine. The room usually has napkins, paper towels, plates, coffee, and other cups, roaches and paper plates. People sometimes sit on chairs that are not rocking chairs. But the chairs rock. The chairs are placed by beat up tables that shake. The Department of Labor rules and the emergency escape plan are somewhere on the wall. Don’t forget the fire extinguisher. It’s probably not working. Good luck if there’s a fire.

Let’s go to the office refrigerator. Have you ever gone in to get your sandwich and couldn’t find it? Years ago, it happened to me. It was in a Barnes & Noble bag. Remember that store? I didn’t see the bag and thought someone had stolen my lunch. It happens. What boggles my mind is it was a homemade sandwich. I would be less upset if someone stole my lunch from the store. I would never steal anyone’s lunch. But it makes more sense to steal something that a store prepared. You have no idea what the person’s kitchen looks like. It could look like a slop pit. At the local bodega, you usually see the people crafting your meal. Sometimes, I’ve walked into those stores and right out after a quick look around. You probably have never seen the person’s home kitchen. Worse, the sandwich could have been made by someone picking their nose while slapping the roast beef onto the roll.

Let us return to my stolen bag. I went down to a store and bought lunch. Yeah, I looked around. The store was fine. I returned to the fridge to get something out and saw my sandwich. The person stole my Barnes & Noble bag. Not my lunch. Someone needed a bag. Why steal from the office fridge? They should have gone to the mailroom or reception area where there were many bags. Someone said maybe they wanted it to be used as a gift bag, and it looked nicer than the typical plastic or paper bag. Who knows?

Also, did you ever see what was in the office fridge? Some salads have turned colors other than green. The sandwiches had moldy blue bread. The office milk might have been sitting there since the flood. People keep liquids in containers that resemble the water on the tracks of NYC’s subway. Sometimes, the aroma you get when you open the doors could knock you out. Take a quick peek in the freezer. Sometimes, there is ice. It is often covered in crumbs or pieces of who knows what.

Then there are those people who bring their lunch in bowls or dishes. Did you ever watch them stand by the sink after they eat? They stand there for what seems like an hour. No one else can get near the sink while they are there. Ah, come on, people, give it a quick spray of soap and water and toss it in your bag. You will get much cleaner in your kitchen sink or dishwasher at home—the same for your coffee mug or teacup. Many people keep those at their desks or in a cabinet in the office kitchen. You can give those a little more cleaning love. But do it quickly. How could you keep a personal mug in a cabinet with other people’s mugs? Some could touch it or grab it by mistake.

Who wants to meet for lunch?

Sunday Papers

Memories of Lazy Weekend Reading with the Newspaper

By Mitchell Slepian

My mom sometimes said, my dad was married to his New York Times (NYT). My parents divorced before I was a teen. I often spent weekends with him. I have distinct memories in the mid-to-late 70s of my dad reading his Sunday newspaper and, of course, reading his copy of the daily paper on his NYC subway train from Sheepshead Bay into Bloomingdales when he was a manager of its finance department.

In 1978, a great year (the Yankees repeated their World Series title), dad, mom, my sister and me left Brooklyn for an exotic place – Staten Island. Dad now had a much longer commute to work. He took his paper on the bus or the Staten Island Ferry.

“You can read it in the Sunday papers. Sunday papers.” We know Joe Jackson was criticizing the British tabloid press when he wrote “Sunday Papers” for his debut album “Look Sharp.” Much of it rings true. But I wanna talk about the Sunday papers in a different mode. I know most people get their news from their phones. I do love Apple News. But there is something about having the old-fashioned newspaper in your hands. I still get a Sunday paper. My mom taught me to read it by placing it on a beach towel on the kitchen table. She said you’d save our and eventually your table from ink stains. The stains that got on my hands that’s what the sink is for.

My memories of the Print Edition

Some of us are old enough to remember the old school weekend NYT. It had tons of thick special sections that were delivered on Saturday. The Arts & Leisure section had information about what was happening in NYC’s museums and elsewhere. Often, you’d see how if you went to one at a certain time you got in for half price or got a free something. My dad clipped out all of this, and on Sunday, we went to Museum Mile and other spots. I have an older cousin whose dad did similar, I loved the museums. My cousin hated them. I’m a member of nearly every museum in NYC. Years later, when both of us were laid off, I spent my time at the Guggenheim, Whitney, Tenement Museum, and others. I always asked my cousin to join me. He would never.

At home on Staten Island, we got our daily delivery of the Staten Island Advance (Advance). I read it. I loved reading Moss Klein’s stories in the sports section about my beloved Bronx Bombers. My first job was in politics, serving as a press secretary for a local NYC Council Member. I pitched our news releases to the Advance and was friendly with several reporters. My sister another newspaper reader became a reporter at the Advance. I was long gone from politics when she was employed at the paper, so we never worked together. That would have been interesting.

When I was a kid, my grandparents would come over from Sheepshead Bay for Sunday afternoon barbeques. We had the NYT and Advance on the table. As we were getting ready for our hot dogs and burgers, grandpa would read both. He usually read the New York Post or New York Daily News at home. In the metro section of the NYT, he always looked for stories about Staten Island. It was funny. That never happened. That’s why Staten Islanders swore by the Advance.

Eventually in the late 90s, I moved out and started buying my Sunday papers. I started in Rego Park and came back to Staten Island. I read all the dailies, the New York Daily News, the New York Post, and my eventual favorite of the bunch, The Wall Street Journal (WSJ). I would buy them before boarding the Subway or Staten Island Ferry. That’s when they sold papers all over. It was before you woke up, and your iPhone was buzzing like a madman with the latest from Apple News, social media, and Snaps from your friends, about, as Depeche Mode would put it, “the world we live in and life in general.”

I enjoyed reading the papers on the commute to and from work. Of course, the news in the morning wasn’t any different than the news on the ride home. I just read a different paper. So, the only differences could have been the opinions of the writers. Nothing was updated from the morning to the evening. We sometimes had the radio or news channels on at work. So, we followed Wall Street and breaking news with the available technology to the best of our abilities.

On my ferry rides, I often sat with a group of friends on the a.m. commute into the city. We discussed the latest news. Most of us had a paper. Usually, our conversations focused on the Yankees. We did discuss politics and movies. We compared the opinions of the writers in the different papers.

When I was back on Staten Island, my sister got an apartment in the same building complex as mine. On weekends, I would read my copy of the NYT and walk over to her building, throw it at her door, and scream out, “Mr. Flintstone.” During the holiday season, I put a card into the paper and begged for a tip. She gave me a dollar. It was so sweet of her.

As you have realized, I love baseball. I remember sitting at my table reading the NYT, which we know is not known for having a great sports section. I read its feature about the orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Andrews (now retired). You got nervous when you heard your favorite athlete was going to see him. You knew he was down for the count. The article gave an in-depth feature about how he evaluated and treated the athletes. It was a great learning experience. Holding the paper in my hands and reading about baseball feels more real than scrolling through my phone or tablet.

The Arts & Leisure section of the NYT offered similar. When “Wicked” was still starring Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel, it did a terrific feature about how the two Tony winners were brought up and how they began their storied acting careers. Jumping ahead to the WSJ’s Off-Duty section, Lettie Teague’s weekly wine column offers great advice on what to sip, buy, and order. The paper’s magazine section often has beautiful watches. I want all of them. Sometimes, I get ‘em.

One more memory of dad and his paper. All the Sunday papers had many circulars featuring coupons of the latest sales at the drug store, supermarket, local clothing stores and restaurants. My dad called them “couponys.” He used to sit and clip them out. He stored them in an index card holder and had a filing system. He was one of those people, who would walk up to the register in Waldbaum’s with more groceries than you can imagine and pay about $10.

I Began Having Newspaper Issues

I moved off the rock and went back to Queens. I transferred my weekend NYT subscription. Eventually, I switched to WSJ’s Weekend Journal. Pre-Covid, the paper used to be delivered to my apartment door. During the height of the lockdown and today, all the papers are in the lobby. We rarely had any problems. There was a pile of newspapers on the radiator. On Saturday morning, I would walk downstairs around 6 a.m. and take mine. The walks up and down the steps prepared me for the day. I would start reading. Sometimes, I would finish the main section and go to morning services or elsewhere— hopefully, Yankee Stadium. They returned to deliver the paper to my front door a few months ago. Then it went back to the lobby.

Most people I know stopped getting newspaper delivery or stopped buying them at newsstands. Many newsstands are only selling junk food. Several have closed. Just walk along NYC’s streets and you will see many locked-up newsstands. Most of the people I know, just get their news online.

Sadly, since the beginning of 2025 my WSJ stopped showing up. I go downstairs and see other papers. I have emailed and spoken to the WSJ’s customer care countless times. They keep promising to get it right. Occasionally the paper comes late Saturday night. It is still the weekend. But by that time, I do not want to read it. I have already seen everything on my phone. I like a Sunday paper. I enjoy being offline as much as possible on the weekend. Like most people, I am on too much. While disappointed to do this, I will likely cancel my Sunday paper.

Alana’s in Pain

Alana’s looked like she was about to burst. She and Marc were chilling in his camp. Why they were there, no one knew. Even they couldn’t figure out why they weren’t home. The two had no clue where the nearest hospital was. Marc remembered a few hospital runs in camp after they went to Action Park. Someone always got hurt.

They had a mix of Adele, Joy Division, the Cure, U2, and Depeche Mode playing, and even a little Billy Joel, Elton John, the Ramones, and Beatles made the setlist. The fire was burning. The weather was perfect. Marc kissed her. He was very nervous. Their doctor didn’t know of their powers. They had no idea what would happen when the baby was born. They did their best research by reading Star Wars books.

Alana’s water broke. She was in the leanto that Marc slept in during his summer years. She was on the floor on top of a green blanket. The cots were long gone. She started to scream. March began to shake. Wi-Fi was nonexistent in this part of the camp. Due to the connectivity issue, they couldn’t find a video on YouTube showing how to deliver a baby. It was too late for Marc to get her into the car and use Google Maps to guide them to a hospital.

Alana’s face was redder than a tomato. Marc was pretending to be an OB/GYN. She screamed. No one heard her. Or maybe someone did. Suddenly lightning flashed. She cried. Clueless, Marc was holding her ankles. He almost fell. As Marc was falling, a hand pushed him back up. He freaked. He turned around and saw the Woodsman with his herd of buffalo. The Woodsman motioned to Marc, who stepped away. A buffalo waltzed up to Alana. It looked at her. Alana’s eyes froze. She laughed. Suddenly, a boy and a girl popped out. They were perfect.

In Camp

Marc and Alana went to camp. They were in the section that was closed. This was the spot that was Marc’s many moons ago. It was closed down my people called professionals. The only thing they are professional about is stupidity. Campers were running around the remainder of the operating camps. Both were under capacity. Marc set up the fire lay. He would light it later. Alana was in her black bathing suit, yearning to jump into the lake. The two’s eyes met, and they frolicked down the lake. They jumped in. They swam for over an hour. They walked out of the lack, hand in hand, like love cats. They got back to their site. Marc lit the fire. Alana changed out of her suit to her The Cure t-shirt from the concert the two attended in August of 1989. Marc still had his shirt. That was one of the best nights of their lives. Thirty-five years later the two were still in love and still argued nonstop. Perfect. The steaks Marc grilled were perfect. The ice-cold Genesee Cream Ale was perfect. As were the bags of Wise chips. Alana wanted to bake brownies. For some reason, she could not find the ingredients. She would bring this up with Marc. Supposedly, he had a friend who was an expert on getting brownies. It was getting dark. Love & Rockets was cranking out of Alana’s iPhone. They were sitting by the fire and nodded to each other. Off they went to Marc’s old leanto.

Children

Marc and Alana were up early. They had to get to the “Israel on Fifth” parade. For many years, Marc was a reviewing stand assistant. He welcomed people with passes to that area, gave them a bottle of water, and a bag of Bamba, and escorted them to seats. It was the only area on the route that had bathrooms. They were porta potties. Often, when people got to the reviewing stand, their first question was is there a bathroom? Marc smiled and happily escorted them over. Alana had staffed previous parades.

Neither was staffing the event this year. Alana and Marc were ready to fight in case anything happened. Yes, they knew the NYPD was going to do a great job. But the two of them were more powerful. Anat and her strong kids also stationed themselves along the parade route. Thankfully, nothing happened. Marc and Alana raced up to Lincoln Center to see “A Midnight Summer’s Night Dream.”

After the ballet, they had dinner at P.J. Clarke’s. Alana and Marc continued their conversation about having a kid. They were strongly considering it. The issue was where the conception should take place. They thought about flying out to Israel for a few weeks. Marc was very high on this. But he was also very high on having this event occur in a hidden valley, a picturesque window or along a lake known to rock. They were not sure what to do. They didn’t even know if they wanted to go through with this. Alana is getting older. So, if they decide to move ahead, the time is now. They started preparing a music list to create their little superhero. It featured the Cure, Smiths, Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy, Depeche Mode, U2, Echo & the Bunnymen, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Ramones, Love & Rockets, the Clash, Big Audio Dynamite, the Sex Pistols, P.I.L and the Psychedelic Furs. The two of them sipped their Stella and dreamed on.

Milk

It was a party at Anat’s place. Marc, Alana, Jen, Tzipora, and Elan were there with their kids. Dan just got back from picking up some more wine and beer. All of the kids were playing. Anat was feeding Gillil. Not being shy, Alana yelled out, “Hey, Anat is that date milk she’s sucking out of you?” Marc has a friend who works on a dairy farm and knows everything about milk. Anat retorted back, “I have no clue. Why don’t you try some.” They all laughed. Tzipora’s eyes were fixated on Alana. Eran knew about the two of them. Marc and Alana mentioned the powers some of their kids had. This was the only group that knew of their powers. Alana said imagine if Marc and I had a kid. It’d be a monster. Our kid would come from two parents who have superpowers. The others are only from one. Marc smiled.

The party winded down. Marc and Alana, left hand in hand. The two of them began discussing having a kid. No, they would not get married. They just wanted to see what they created. They imagined what would happen if the Emperor and Princess Leia had ever gotten married. Or if Anakin married Ashoka. That’d be interesting. Imagine what the Force would wield. The two of them went home and started playing Love & Rockets. They woke up the following day and were still discussing having a kid.

Fire

Marc and Alana went to celebrate Lag B’Omer. Marc built the fire. He was not pleased. He was a master fire builder. Too many super-religious folks got in his way. He was anxious and annoyed. But finally, some of the cute kids made him smile. Of course, Alana was there looking hot in her all-black clothes and makeup. The two of them do not like rabbis. Toss in HR and real estate people. Anyway, the rabbi had to play religious music. Alana had her iPhone cranking Joy Division and Bauhaus. The fire lasted. But not long enough. But too many people thought you just keep feeding and pouring olive oil on it. It was a comedy of errors. The food usually was delicious. Sadly, the temple screwed that up, too. It was so dry.

Marc lit the fire hung with his friends, and sat hand in hand with Alana. Many people were upset with them. They are not married. They will never wed. Marc, at one point, wanted to get Alana a ring. He knew that would end their relationship. He would need many sessions with the Woodsman if that happened. We know the Woodsman rarely comes out. The rabbi was selling candles and trying. Marc and Alana were in the back of the yard, hiding from everyone and acting like teens in love. Their lips were locked, and their hands were all over each other. You could hear the Cure and New Order cranking from Alana’s phone.

The two didn’t anticipate any fighting that night. They were ready. They always are. Anat was having a nicer Lag B’Omer on the Upper East Side. Ben and Gillil helped build the fire. Dan ran the grill. All was quiet. How long would it last?

Diane Does Ok

Diane went out for a run. The last few months of her life have been better than ever. She hasn’t touched one drug or sipped one ounce of liquor. Her job was satisfactory. She reconnected with some old friends from high school. She went to a concert or Broadway show and bought tickets for a few Yankee games.

She missed Jerry. She always would. However, she knew she didn’t even know him when she was his. She certainly didn’t know him now. She only knew Jay’s abuse, drugs, and alcohol. Oh, and that blaring disgusting heavy metal he blasted. Her run wound up. She sipped some Poland Spring and stretched out on a bench. She heard yells. She figured it was kids and people arguing.

She looked into the distance and saw Jay slapping Kari across her face. She smiled and cried. She was happy for herself that she was done with him. She was upset someone else was suffering. Diane was powerless to stop him. She knew he’d shoot glass out of his fingers or eyes if she approached and tried. She hoped for the best.

Marc was running, too. He was a distance from Jay and Kari. But he was keeping a good speed and was rapidly approaching. He never ran with music cranking into his ears out of his iPhone. He detested headphones and all the iterations people now stuffed into their ears. He just sang songs in his head. He sang Joplin, Lennon, Joni Mitchell, Joy Division and the Bee Gees. It was quite the odd mix of tunes. But they kept him going.

Marc’s keen eyes saw what was going on. He was not in the mood. From a distance, he shot honey at Jay, who was blindsided. Of course, Jay knew who hit him. He got up and wildly started shooting glass. Kari ran. Diane just watched with a smile. Marc approached Jay, who started throwing punches. He missed. Marc didn’t. Pomegranates smacked Jay in the eyes and nostrils. He fell to the floor. Marc decided he didn’t want to fight any longer. He coated Jay in Honey and left.

Maternity Leave?

Technically, Anat was on maternity leave. But we know she’s a nerd. She sat in her home office and checked emails while listening to “I’m Waiting for My Man” by the Velvet Underground. She loved Mr. Reed. She decided to look at the emails and not respond. Everything was being handled in her absence. Dan had a few days left of his paternity leave. Anat sent him to the store.

Anat was feeding Gillil. The baby loved her milk. Anat figured she’d grow up and love ice cream and other delicious dairy delicacies. But who knew? She just got the photos back from the naming. They were perfect. They almost made her cry. She remembered the photographer Marc hired at no cost loved dairy. They had to order extra cream cheese. That was the only payment he required.

Gillil stopped feeding and started to fall asleep. Anat placed her in the crib and returned to her laptop to check some of the funds she managed. Things were going well. She was disappointed that Apple was not going to produce an EV. She was not a fan of Tesla.

The baby woke up screaming. This happened occasionally. She rolled over and began shooting jelly out of her fingertips. She did not shoot any latkes. Anat wondered if she had a bad dream. There’s been stuff written about babies and dreaming. She decided to look into it and maybe ask Tzipora what she knew.

Meanwhile, Marc was at work and wanted to be more pleased. Things weren’t going his way today. He decided to take a walk outside to clear his head. The weather was ok. He walked around the block and came back. He got back to his computer and finished up. He submitted a few things he did not care about and went home to Alana.

She was trying to cook. Both of them could have been better cooks. Marc could do wonders on the grill in camp. He was a disaster when it came to cooking at home in his apartment. Alana was making cod and asparagus. Marc opened a can of Smithwick’s. He fell in love with it in Belfast and Dublin. Alana poured herself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc straight from Boudreaux. The fish was tasty. The two made small talk and decided to watch Game 6 of the 1977 World Series. They remember seeing it as kids. Almost 47 years later, they still got excited every time Reggie approached the plate. Of course, now they knew each time the ball was going out of the park.

Kari was in bed with her dogs. She was cranking the Sisters of Mercy and crying. She had no idea why she stayed with Jay. He was on his way to pick her up to take her out for what promised to be another miserable date.

The Naming

It was a warm Thursday morning. Anat debated about doing the naming at shul or in her apartment. She was not a fan of rabbis. Marc could not stand them. Anat could have easily gotten a nice Sephardi stand-up Torah in her apartment. But she thought of her grandmother, who was devoted to her volunteer work at her shul. So, she decided the naming would be there, and the party would be in her penthouse.

A decent-sized crowd headed into her shul. She was a member and donor. She just disliked going. The phoniness of many of the congregants made her nauseous. Dan got up the amud and davened shacharit. Marc took out the Torah. Dan was not super religious. But he knew the ropes. Dan and his beloved are both Kohanim. He read the Cohen aliyah. They called up Tzipora’s husband, Elan, a Levi, for the next reading. He knew it all. Jake did shlishi. With tears, Dan held up his little jelly and latke-shooting baby. The rabbi read the prayers, and his little bundle of joy was named, Gillil. Anat was in tears. She picked the name after her grandmother. She wished she was here to see her baby at her happiest time.

They exited the shul and went to her place for a delicious or, as some would say, lish feast of bagels, bialys, cream cheese, lox, sable, white fish, cookies, and cake. The Arak was flowing. Everyone gathered around Gilli. People were snapping images. The professional photographer was an old friend of Marc’s. He was so happy it was a dairy party, he offered his services at no cost. Gillil was calm. She has not had any incidents with her powers since her birthday. But Anat and Dan knew Gillil would be a handful. Marc and Alana were briefed on what she could do. They smiled and just waited.