There are no regulars at an airport bar. No one ever intends to go there. And no one really wants to be there. Oh sure, you may plan to stop in for a quick one to take the edge off pre-boarding jitters, or designate it as where you'll kill that two-hour layover in Dallas, but if you weren't trapped within the terminal, you wouldn't be hanging around this ... airport bar.
Airport bars never have names—well, they do, but you never know them until you find an old receipt in some disused carry-on luggage. And why should you? They're all just the Airport Bar. And, like any other terminal business, from Burger King to the Hudson News, it all seems to be run by one corporation. Otherwise, why would that "make it a double for $2" deal be effective in every aviation pit stop, from Maine's Portland International Jetport to Washington's Portland International Airport? (Unless it's written into the FAA bylaws somewhere.) And they all look like the same bar, differentiated only by what color polo shirts the staff is wearing and whether the décor is vaguely T.G.I. Friday's (random assortment of sepia-toned photos), vaguely ESPN Zone (haphazard collection of sports tchochkes) or vaguely Chi-Chi's (sombreros 'n' serapes).
But the Airport Bar makes up for the bland atmosphere with a wide-ranging and constantly fluctuating clientele. In Washington, D.C., I saw a middle-aged man in an $800 suit wash down a Cinnabon with a gin and tonic at 8 a.m., his eyes never leaving the Fox News burbling overhead. In Atlanta, I saw a Frenchman getting weepy around the edges as he gazed into a glass of bottom-shelf whiskey, oblivious to the Dale Earnhardt paraphernalia around him. In many cities, I saw countless first wives rearranging their fake Louis Vuittons around the bottoms of barstools as they washed down pre-flight tranquilizers with white wine.
But much of my Airport Bar experience has taken place at our very own McCarran, particularly back when I used to only visit Las Vegas, arriving in victory and departing in defeat—and I don't gamble; not with money, anyway—either direction requiring a cocktail before takeoff. Personally, I favor the Autoraceway sports bar because it offers a fine view of life's rich pageant from just past security, there's always an abundance of lighters to borrow—a necessity now that such things are verboten onflight—and you can get a hot dog from the bartender. You could also imbibe at Cheers™, when you wanna go where everyone knows your name: specifically the concourse between A and B gates. And let us not forget the Budweiser Brew House of Gate A7 or the Jose Cuervo Tequileria of Gate C16. The only bar that makes an effort to be actually tavern/pub/saloon-like is the eccentrically dubbed Cocktail Lounge, and even that just means some standing slot machines, a black-and-white tiled floor and paneling behind the memorabilia.
The only exception I know to the "Why play hard for a captive audience?" airport bar is the Encounter Bar & Restaurant at LAX. Contained in a spaceship-like structure, it seems as though a flying saucer missed the runway and was immediately surrounded by several cordons of Los Angeles traffic, which is just as arduous to cross as any top-secret, government barbed wire and towers. While not as innocently space-kitsch as in its days as a coffee shop and lounge, the Encounter's current state of Disney-designed Austin Powers overkill is still amusing as hell. You'd think Vegas' tourist traffic and stylistic excess would be the place for such a thing. But as far as I know, the McCarran expansion contains no plans for a knockoff of George and Judy Jetson's place next to international arrivals. Thus, you'll still find me at the Airport Bar—although, of course, I can't say exactly when ....
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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