It’s a tipsy, universal truth that some drinks just hit harder depending on the situation. An ice-cold dirty martini on a Friday night after a maddening day at work, or a pina colada on the beach with one of those adorable little toothpick umbrellas sticking out? You really can’t do much better. How about a foamy pumpkin beer while there’s a chill in the air, during the only time of year it’s acceptable to dress in flannel? Nothing tops that. But there’s only one location on earth where enjoying a drink truly feels like a gift from the Gods. It’s an upside-down place where nothing matters—neither time, nor money. A cocktail Camelot, if you will.
I’m talking about the pleasure of drinks at the airport bar, a sort of Twilight Zone where there are no rules, the responsibilities are nonexistent, and the possibilities are endless. Where else does a simple drink embody so much promise and optimism?
It’s especially true in the middle of the summer travel season when you’re about to embark on that long-awaited vacation. After braving months of Google flight alerts, the puzzle of figuring out checked baggage policies, and all that prerequisite penny-pinching, the day finally comes when you head for the airport by way of either nightmare traffic or the labyrinth of public transit. Once you do finally make it to a curb full of idling Ubers and workers greeting passengers by screaming everyone to “move!” it’s time for your next battle: those hellish TSA lines, which amount to putting all of your most valuable possessions into battered plastic bins and taking part in that delicate dance of figuring out if you need to take off your shoes or not, a guessing game where everybody comes out on the losing end. Then, once you gather your stuff and clumsily tie your shoes while splayed out on the floor like a toddler, sweet freedom! A drink is finally within your reach. You earned it, champ.
Of course, not all places at the airport that serve those blessed libations are built the same. At JFK, iPads are affixed to long counters as if it’s the Apple Store and you punch your order, real-life bartenders be damned. Meanwhile, at Hollywood Burbank, the bars take on the atmosphere of a mall cafeteria: packed and loud under fluorescent lights, some vaguely branded with Wolfgang Puck insignia. Down at Miami International, the cocktails naturally come with a side of Cuban food. I once sipped wine at Denver International Airport in a place that so wanted to be a trattoria, but instead was like a sad, AI-generated version of the concept with vague artwork of a winery and “pizza” which was a piece of microwaved bread and ketchup. Of course, there are those bougie airline lounges too, the birth of which is up there with the miraculous invention of flight itself.
