Home Sweet Home

Came across this stunning photo of Central Park the other day. I see pictures of NYC every other day on social media, but this one struck a nerve. More accurately, it triggered a pungent memory.

Memories are tricky because if you dwell on them too long people see you as living in the past. Washed up. Clutching at straws trying to reclaim long lost glory. Too bad, I'm of a certain age, where I really don't care what people think. Particularly younger people who grimace when I claim advertising and the advertising industry was better in the old days.

Because you know what, it was.

If you were to zoom in on the red arrow, you'd be staring at Essex House, at least that's what it was called in pre-pandemic days. And on the 23rd story of this storied building, you'd find an exquisite Indian restaurant, appointed with fine Persian rugs, exotic lamps imported from Italy, and waiters and waitresses in full tuxedos.

Ok, they may not have been wearing tuxedos, but for the purposes of this tale, they were.

Truth be told, I like my Indian food on the more authentic side. Served up in a dingy strip mall hole in the wall restaurant, with a check cashing store on one side and a purveyor of fine adult books on the other. But on this occasion I was more than willing to indulge in $25 dollar veggie samusas and $80 bowls of Curried Eel, caught fresh that day off the coast of Ceylon.

Not only was the food amazing, so were the views. Unparalleled. And until that night unseen, by anyone like me, a member of the decidedly lower castes.

We, meaning my partner John Shirley, several account execs, and perhaps even a client, to justify the mortgage-worthy bill, were brought there by my old boss Jerry Gentile. It was not the first, or last indulgent feast visited upon us on our almost monthly journeys to the NY office.

Whenever we went to the Big Apple, we went big. Often flying in Business Class. Often staying at outrageously expensive hotels. Often raiding the mini bars and the breakfast in bed room service at said outrageously expensive hotels ($18 for a bag of cashews? $48 for a pitcher of orange juice? Sure, why not?) And always dining at New York's finest restaurants.

We frequented cigar bars and gentlemen's clubs. We sampled rare scotches. On one excessively sodden night, John and I found ourselves at the St. Regis hotel bar, being hit upon by two rich socialite women, who were well into their 60's. It was the stuff of Penthouse letters.

By the time we were boarding the plane at JFK for the return flight to LA, our necks and cheeks would be hurting from laughing so hard.

However, it should be noted that all of our missions were driven by the singular goal of creating great creative advertising.

And, as it turns out, even more creative expense reports.