Sorry to repeat myself, but one of my favorite memories of my first stint at the NYTimes is of interns coming around late at night and taking food and drink orders — on some shifts the former editor of the Harvard Crimson would have to bring this college dropout milk. But it turns out I should have stuck around, and not just for a shot at a buyout. At a party the other night I learned the food at the Icarus Tower is actually now catered by Restaurant Associates. Jeebus, journalism has come a long way from vending machines in the passageway to the composing room. As much as I used to mock the old bacteria bar in the Cafe Regret, funky food had to keep reporters and editors grounded. I will always remember seeing a fashion writer who had worked at the paper as long as I’d been alive eating one of those scary little “pizzas” late one afternoon in that gritty cafeteria. Today she would be noshing on sushi and never considering what the little people eat. Let alone what the last meal was on the Titanic.