Bronfman wanted a cheap whiskey monument. His daughter, Phyllis Lambert, saved us from that fate by rejecting a mediocre plan and demanding Mies van der Rohe. She got her way. Mies refused to compromise on materials, demanding pure luxury. He ordered 1,500 tons of extruded bronze for the facade. Because the metal oxidizes, crews must oil the exterior every single year. They literally rub it down with lemon oil. Pure indulgence. Those decorative exterior I-beams do not actually hold anything up, but they make the building look structurally honest. Talk about a paradox.
Then we have the plaza. Instead of building right up to the sidewalk to squeeze out every square inch of rentable space, Mies set the tower back one hundred feet. He created an open pink-granite plaza with twin fountains. People actually sat there. They ate lunch, drank coffee, and watched the city move. This shocked city planners, who realized that crowded New York desperately needed these breathing spaces. So, they passed the 1961 Zoning Resolution. It offered developers a bonus: build a public plaza, and we will let you build a taller tower. This changed Midtown forever, though it also produced some pretty dismal, wind-swept concrete voids elsewhere.
Inside, Philip Johnson ran the show. He designed the legendary Four Seasons restaurant with its shimmering metal curtains and bubbling white marble pool. Rich power brokers ate there for decades. It was the birthplace of the "power lunch." The National Register of Historic Places recognized the building in 2006, which was actually quite late considering its massive influence. It is not just a steel box. It is the ultimate expression of corporate ambition, wrapped in bronze and travertine. Modernism never looked this expensive again.
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