One legendary story involves a publishing executive who died during a meal. His body was quietly wheeled out through the kitchen so as not to disturb the nearby table where the CEO of Time Inc. was eating. While the room was Johnson’s masterpiece, the food was Baum’s revolution. Before the Four Seasons, American fine dining meant French classical cuisine: heavy sauces, soufflés, Escoffier. Baum and his chef, Albert Stockli , created "American Seasonal" cuisine before anyone coined the phrase.

The result was two distinct spaces. (often called "The Pool Room") was a windowless, masculine den. Its centerpiece was the Pool —a shallow, shimmering rectangular fountain of carnelian and white marble, framed by chain-mail curtains designed by artist Richard Lippold. The other room, The Four Seasons proper, faced the Seagram Plaza with floor-to-ceiling windows, birch trees that were changed out for each season, and a shifting floral display by the sculptor Karl Bitter.

In its prime, the Four Seasons offered one of the most intoxicating drinks in New York: the feeling that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. And as the lights dimmed on that final night in 2016, one waiter was heard to whisper to a regular, "Don't worry, sir. We'll be back. We always come back in the spring."

In 2016, the landlord—the Bronfman family’s successor company—refused to renew the lease. The restaurant’s co-owners, Julian Niccolini (the volatile, charming Sicilian) and Alex von Bidder (the urbane Dutchman), fought a public, bitter battle. They lost.

But Mies, famously, hated restaurants. He considered them messy, low-brow intrusions on his pure, rectilinear spaces. It was his protégé, , who convinced him otherwise. Johnson was designing the interior of the ground floor and lobby; he saw a void that needed life. He recruited two young, ambitious restaurateurs: Joe Baum and Restaurant Associates .

For 57 years, the entrance to the Four Seasons Restaurant was a portal to another era. Just off the soaring, bronze-sculpted lobby of the Seagram Building at 99 East 52nd Street, diners stepped from the Midtown grid into a cathedral of mid-century modernism. The air smelled different inside—a mix of expensive tobacco, fresh flowers, and the particular aroma of deals being sealed.

Whether the resurrection happens or not, the Four Seasons Restaurant is already eternal. It sits in the memory of anyone who ever saw the light hit that chain-mail curtain just right, or heard the soft splash of the Pool over a whispered merger. It is the ghost at every power lunch, the standard by which all other rooms are judged.

Baum was a visionary. He believed that a restaurant could be a destination, a piece of theater. He gave Johnson a mandate: build a room that changes with the seasons, a room so beautiful that people would weep. Johnson delivered.