Thursday, September 03, 2026
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My cousin got married last weekend, so family members from far and wide congregated to celebrate. I hadn’t seen some of these aunts and uncles in months, some of them years, so when we went to a bar for the after party, I thought, why not put my card down so they can enjoy a drink on me? It’s generous enough to buy a round for your family, but what about for the entire bar? I didn’t go that far, but Esquire contributor Jason Diamond makes the case for it below. Maybe you’ll be inspired come the weekend. —Chris Hatler, deputy editor
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The day after my daughter was born, I walked into a watering hole in New York and dropped $200 on a group of strangers. It’s a moment I’ll never forget.
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For years, I had a vision of how I’d celebrate a major milestone in my life—that milestone being the sale of my first novel. The vision goes something like this: It’s the afternoon, and I walk into a bar. A mix of blue-collar guys and a couple of businessmen, three or four Manhattans deep before they head back to Westchester to resume their John Cheever existence, occupy the stools. I post up at the bar, slip the bartender a Ben Franklin, and give a grandiose speech about accomplishing my dream. Then I buy everyone a round of drinks. I am sharing an intimate moment with strangers by practicing a lost art: buying a round.
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Early afternoon, Steinem's apartment in Manhattan. After some small talk about aging, India, and the media's appetite for bullshit …
SCOTT RAAB: In the piece you wrote for Esquire ["The Moral Disarmament of Betty Coed"] in 1962, there's the idea that the problem isn't so much the sexual liberation of women as a result of contraceptive technology but that there are so few liberated men. And you weren't wrong.
GLORIA STEINEM: I wouldn't put it that way anymore, because I think we're all enmeshed in this political system that is devoted to controlling reproduction. You didn't invent it; I didn't invent it. Thirty percent of us are trying to preserve it, and seventy percent are trying to change it. We're not active enough or voting enough or mad enough.
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The classically trained actor and filmmaker has worked as a background extra (see if you can spot him in the crowd in 1981’s Chariots of Fire,) a noir-ish leading man (see 1991’s Hitchcockian Dead Again), a purveyor of mysteries with his Agatha Christie films, a superhero storyteller with 2011’s Thor, a Christopher Nolan regular, and the man who almost singlehandedly made Shakespeare not only thrilling but sexy as hell—as proven by Henry V, Hamlet, Much Ado About Nothing, Love’s Labour’s Lost, As You Like It, and Othello.
In his latest incarnation, Branagh is the most debonair man who will ever punch you in the face. That’s what Ryan Reynolds learns the hard way in their new buddy comedy Mayday, in which Branagh plays a Russian mountain man who rescues (or does he capture?) a downed American spyplane pilot who has crashed within the U.S.S.R. during the late 1980s tensions of the Cold War.
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