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If you aren't hungry when you start reading this column, I hope you will be when you're finished. This is about sustenance of a certain kind -- a kind we're denying ourselves these days.

But to get to today, we start in the past, with a question about "stuff."

How did we ever get things done back in the early 1970s, when I was a cub reporter? We had none of today's technical support. We lacked:

• Cell phones. For quick communication, we used two-way radios in our news cars, and brick-like walkie-talkies in the field. We carried dimes to feed the pay phones that linked us to editors and producers.

• Voice mail. Real human beings answered phones, took messages and sometimes even remembered to pass them on to the right person.

• Digital anything. Whatever images we captured, we carried or ferried home, then bathed them in the chemical soup that turned them into pictures, be they moving or still.

• Fax machines. We waited -- oh yes -- waited minutes, even days for Mr. Postman to deliver the letter, the press release or the invoice. Messengers would stop by when somebody absolutely, positively thought material had to be there.

• Computers. We pounded out our stories on typewriters. We ripped AP and UPI wires off machines that stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, like stubby sentries, with bells that dinged our attention to "Urgents." ("Breaking news" had not yet been invented.) To communicate, we spoke to each other. To share information widely, we hand-distributed copies of memos. I still have my copy of the memo introducing me to the staff, my first day on the job. It was mimeographed.

• The Internet. For research, we relied on hard copies of books and files -- and the kindness of librarians. We camped out at courthouses and dug in the dusty file cabinets of government agencies. We scrolled and squinted through microfiche records.

• E-mail. When we got to our desks each day, we read mail, talked to each other, typed stories, made calls and hit the streets to cover our beats. We didn't spam the globe nor it us.

But for all we lacked back then, we had something that few journalists seem to enjoy today.

We had lunch.  

Lunch, remember it? Real lunch.

I'm talking the sit-down-in-a-restaurant-and-order lunch.

Or:

The go-out-with-your-colleagues-and-laugh lunch.
The take-a-break-during-a-story lunch.
The talk-at-length-with-a-source lunch.
The have-a-talk-about-your-future-with-the-boss lunch.

Why is it that with all the technological advances we enjoy in newsrooms, we have less down-time than ever before? And why have we lost our lunch, so to speak?

Blame the 24/7 news cycle.

Blame the corporations who ask us to do more with less -- and like it.

Blame the onslaught of inquiries and info we now must approach like triage medics: immediate attention here, a slightly delayed response here, delegation there.

What's the opportunity cost when we take a midday break? A mess when we return?

I know that, as a newsroom manager, sometime in the '90s, I began to see lunch as a luxury. I spent more and more time desk-dining.

I ventured out for lunch if it benefited someone: a job candidate, a quick gathering of my management team for an update on projects, a big thank-you for a staffer, a listening session for someone with a problem. Otherwise, lunch out was a rare guilty pleasure.

When I talk with newsroom managers today, I hear that they do lunch even less often than I did. Their time is so limited, so precious.

And yet, when they talk about helping people grow, or resolving conflicts, or giving better feedback, or improved collaboration with colleagues across the organization, they often come up with a simple thought, "You know, I should take them to lunch and get to know them better."

I sometimes joke that after every Poynter leadership seminar, the hospitality industry prospers. Give news people time to reflect on what matters to them in newsrooms -- quality, teamwork, motivation, inspiration, improvement, results -- and they go all culinary on us. Driven by the desire to break away from the workplace treadmill, they decide to break bread more often, more purposefully, with teammates.

Leaders do it to show others they're worth the investment of their time. They do it to step away from all distractions and give someone full attention. They do it to be nice, darn it.

How do they do it, given the many demands on their time? They schedule it. Right there in their PDAs or whatever high-tech tool they're using to manage the minutes of their overscheduled lives.

They do it strategically, inviting people really important to them and to the newsroom's success. Sure, their cell phones probably ring and they no doubt steal glances at their BlackBerries, but they're nonetheless doing something valuable. They're feeding a need.

When was the last time you stepped away from the newsroom to better connect with a colleague? If you could choose just one person this week to take to lunch because he or she is important to you, who would it be? Have a name in mind? Why not show that person this column? And when he or she gets to this point, say:

"You're the one."

Call me crazy for offering this up in the midst of buyouts and layoffs and fears about the future of journalism -- but I'd argue that we might need the break more than ever. So I'll just say it:

Let's do lunch, and I mean it sincerely.

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