Rating the Admiral's Club (Outbound)
Rating the Admiral's Club (Outbound)
The Incidental Tourist
One learns to write, not merely by doing a great deal of writing, but tackling a wide variety of topics. With this in mind, I will, from time to time, spill a little ink about matters, such as music or travel, that lie well beyond the advertised boundaries of Extra Muros.
Flying is for the birds. Indeed, for my money, the only thing worse than being packed into a long titanium tube is serving time in naugahyde neitherlands where mortal men doomed to fly wearily await their planes. Recently, when she learned that I had made plans for a six-flight cross-continental there-and-back again, Mrs. Muros suggested that I avoid this sad and sorry fate by purchasing a pair of day passes to the Admiral’s Club.
Run by American Airlines, the Admiral’s Club consists of a number of Tardis-like lounges, each of which can be found in the post-pat-down portion of an airport terminal.1 While some lounges offer additional services, all provide comfortable places to sit, complimentary food and drink, and, best of all, freedom from the dime-store Teslas that beep their way through airport waiting areas with all the subtlety of Genghis Khan.
In the course of my aerial anabasis, I sampled the fare on offer at five branches of the Admiral’s Club. The first of these, at Terminal E of Washington’s Reagan National Airport, turned out to be brand-spanking new. Indeed, some of the light fixtures struck me as fresher than the croissant I picked up at the breakfast bar, the texture of which brought to mind the asbestos lining of a brake pad.
Happily, the other comestibles on offer proved much less automotive. Indeed, had the ‘toast’ in question actually seen the inside a toaster, the piece of bespoke bobo smørrebrød made for me at the avocado toast station might have won a prize. (After complaining of the antediluvian character of the aforementioned croissant, I should mention that both the spread that defined the sandwich and the slices of smoked salmon laid upon it were still young enough to enjoy a Billie Eilish concert.)
The first transfer of my journey took me to the one branch of the Admiral’s Club located at the Philadelphia International Airport. In keeping with the overall tenor of that shabby aerodrome, which made me feel like an extra in a remake of Soylent Green, this lounge had seen better days. Thus, when I tried to recharge the brick that masquerades as my cell phone, I discovered that the USB port bodged into my side table had missed the proverbial bus.
Things improved when I did my due diligence at the lunch buffet, where, in a bowl labeled ‘soft pretzels’, I discovered the hiding place of all of the fluffiness and flavor that had taken French leave from my morning croissant. Those little paragons of the baker’s art, however, turned out to be the only close kin of the classic wheaten loaf on offer.
Marvelous to say, the bread-free buffet featured lots of the sorts of things - such as genoa salami, prosciutto, and mozzarella - that people like to put into sandwiches, as well as two dunkable soups, a stew in a sauce that screamed for sopping, and the means of assembling substantial salads. I thus found myself wondering if the founders of the feast had embraced the teachings of Ken Berry, Annette Bosworth, or another enthusiast for the ketogenic diet.
Then I saw the sweets.
The contents of the well-stocked Süßigkeitenchrank caused me to ditch the low-carb hypothesis in favor of the theory that the oven at the bakery that supplies the Philadelphia Admiral’s Club was so full of cakes, cookies, and those little crunchy-but-chewy things named for the present president of France that there was no room for buns or rolls, let alone full-bore baguettes.
The third lounge on my itinerary, at Terminal A of the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, provided evidence for both theses. On the one hand, I noted that the spicy beef stew kept company with cauliflower rice. On the other, I found a gecko’s hoard of splendid little rolls, covered in a buttery glaze, of a size well-suited to the delightfully Italian cold cuts and cheeses laid out for me and my fellow passegeri.
The rolls fit perfectly in the little disposable cups I found near the cauldron that held the soup. Better yet, the plastic lids that kept company with the coffee machine fit perfectly over the paper portes potages. Thus, while I possessed neither the time nor the appetite needed to enjoy a proper dinner, I was able to make a pair of itty-bitty sandwiches to enjoy on the late-night flight ahead of me.
To be continued …
For Further Reading:
In the world of British television program Dr. Who, the spaceship Tardis turns out to be far more capacious than its modest exterior would suggest.
Colorful turns of phrase in almost every paragraph!