It isn’t difficult to eat badly in airports. Time either stands still or goes horrifically quickly, depending on whether your plane is delayed, and everything costs more than it should. A flabby burger in stale brioche? That’ll be €20, or €22 with a slice of diner cheese.
In any given airport, there only ever seems to be more food outlets than is necessary, or too few. There is something uniquely depressing in seeing the queue for Burger King in the departures area at Male Airport in the Maldives. Here is one of the most beautiful places on earth, the home of tuna, and people are waiting to eat chicken fries. Of course, I know some people want to eat Burger King and that is their right, but this queue is also circumstantial: at this airport, there is only that, and a cafe, and the cafe might not be open.
I’m moved to write this because I just had what was among the worst sandwiches of my life. It was the driest bread imaginable filled with turkey and what was listed as provolone, but which was actually squirty cheese. I had to smuggle in sachets of honey and mustard sauce to provide a semblance of flavour and get it down.
It was served – first world problems, I know – in a canteen in the British Virgin Islands, before a loquacious and terrifyingly connected taxi driver who regaled me with stories about what goes on on Necker Island. Richard (Branson, presumably)? “Interesting”. Likes a party. Jeff (Bezos)? Only ever on his phone. Janet (Jackson)? Likes to hitchhike from the airport into town.
The sandwich was only marginally worse than the mortadella number I had in Bolzano, Italy, which was also dry. Mortadella should be an experience about which one might luxuriate, yet in lieu of salty ham blankets I made do with meat that was sweating – you know, when there is a thin layer of residue? Crying pork to make you cry.
Then there are the salads. One, at Marrakech airport, affected me quickly. Back in London, I spent most of the next day in the toilet suffering a pain so severe it was like I’d been shot.
Or in Calgary, where I found a branch of Chili’s. I was excited – I’ve seen a lot of memes about Chili’s. Apparently it’s a favourite of middle America and men in New Balance trainers, light denim and tucked-in polo shirts who are ready to enjoy a clinical and pacified dish inspired by a culture they’ve denigrated financially. I was less enthused about all that appropriation stuff, more just intrigued by the “quesadilla explosion”, where chicken, cheese, salsa and tortilla strips were thrust woefully into a bowl.
But nothing – absolutely nothing – comes close to the chicken wrap at Copenhagen. This was not so long ago, a snowstorm had led to delays, reroutes and new flights, and life had become late, hectic and expensive. I was only passing through, traversing Scandinavia like a medieval priest trying to dissuade long-haired men from being pagan.
Options? Hardly any. This, in one of the world’s culinary “hotspots”. And then I stumbled upon something exciting: a 7-Eleven vending machine. Not so much of a whisper of a staff member, instead just an enormous branded fridge with a card machine on the front. I’m surprised I worked out how to use it, and before long I was extracting a chicken and vegetable wrap from one of its cold plastic compartments.
It was endless in encouraging sadness. There have been few times in my life as bleak as this, beneath the bright lights, people shuffling tiredly left and right, people all about me, yet the cold feeling of being totally alone. And there I stood, lonely and confused, amid the grey panelling and the thumping announcements and incessant squeak of plastic wheels on polished floors, eating factory-farmed chicken with veg probably removed from the soil well over a year ago.
As for the wrap: oh my God. The soggiest flap of constructed wheat I’ve ever encountered.
My moaning while talking about travelling – it’s not lost on me. Don’t worry, I realise I’m as awful as that wrap I just described. I’m just saying, it doesn’t always have to be this way.
There are pockets of promise in airports. The scrambled eggs at Gordon Ramsay’s Plane Food at Heathrow are better than you’d expect. So too Jamie Oliver’s mystery pizza brand at an airport I’ve forgotten. Somewhere in Spain, I think. The Daniel Muñoz-associated sandwich brand in Barcelona is also faintly agreeable, if ludicrously priced.
For the most part, I think we should all boycott airport food. Start taking packed lunches. Or, here is my traveller tip: if you’re there longer than an hour or so, and you need to eat, pay for the lounge. It’ll cost much the same as a meal, maybe £10 or so more.
Inside, all the food and drink is free, there are usually showers, and you will be able to avoid the crowds, the scrape of wheels and the crying children. Oh, and the wifi works.
