I used to work with a guy who said the restaurants he went to weren't rated by the number of stars, but by the number of stomach pumps. As we walked around Murray Hill at lunchtime, he'd nod toward a diner like the Swan or the Patio and say, "I eat there all the time. Three stomach pumps!"
Since I have no idea what a stomach pump looks like, I pictured a poster illustrated with something like three gas pumps, long hoses dangling, proudly on display near the cash register of these late, unlamented (at least by me) joints on 34th Street.
I was reminded of this ratings system the last time I flew out of JFK. The choices in the Delta terminal would rate three stomach pumps, maybe four. The pickins are slim: Burger King, Sbarro, Chili's, Starbucks and the Sam Adams Cafe. I sat in the Sam Adams Cafe for a while, amid unbused, unwiped tables, but ran out of patience before anyone got around to waiting on me. I may have dodged a bullet--the menu was a cardiologist's nightmare.
I picked up a chicken Caesar wrap at Chili's To-Go. The tortilla was soggy, the alleged chicken looked like white-ish Spam. It was nasty. I'm usually a member of the clean-plate club, but not this time.
In the NY Times on Feb. 27, Frank Bruni referred to New York as the finest restaurant city in the nation. Too bad you can't tell that from our major international airport. It's especially disappointing in the 21st century, when you usually have plenty of time to kill after checking in two hours early. And since airlines no longer serve food, decent take-out would be handy for those of us who want to brown-bag it on the plane.
Other cities are way ahead of us with airport dining--Chicago has Wolfgang Puck, Portland has Rogue River Brew Pub, Washington National has Legal Seafood, etc. A restaurant at JFK worthy of stars rather than stomach pumps would be a hearty send off on the way out of town, and a wonderful welcome home.
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