Charlotte Douglas International Airport, Concourse E Rotunda

Introduction

A few weeks ago I recognized there was a hole in my travel schedule for this particular week and reached out to my associate to see if there was an interest in contributing to this project. I am grateful that my suggestion was received with such enthusiasm and very much appreciate the willingness to generate content, as if there is nothing else to do. There is no question in my mind that you will enjoy this weeks story as much as I did, with luck this will be the first of many guest tales from the road.

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I am eating at Whisky River against my will. I am too hungry and too sober, sitting at a community table with strangers. The strangers have ALSO been navigating the FAA implosion all day, and they ALSO look hungry and sober. They do not greet me, I do not greet them, we are silently resigned to our fate. But let’s start at the beginning. 

In an unlucky turn of events, I wake up to dramatic headlines about an FAA shutdown. All flights grounded. National and international delays. My mother is flying out of a different airport and departing several hours earlier than me. She texts that her plane is delayed but they say it will leave soon. She texts that they are lying. She texts that she is going home. This is ominous.

But I’m an optimist! The trip is scheduled, I’ve got nothing doing, someone’s gotta get lucky and why shouldn’t it be me? I’ve booked a late-morning departure instead of the 6 AM alternative because who voluntarily starts a vacation at 3:30 AM? The airport is full of people who have been there for hours. We are late to the party, but early for our flight. There are no lines because the party people have already exhausted their customer service options. And really what good would it do to rebook on another flight that will also not depart? But because of our early flight arrival, we snag the last two seats on the 6 AM flight, which obviously has not yet left the airport.

We wait by the gate, and lo and behold, flights start to taxi toward the runway. There is applause when the first plane of the morning takes off. Against all odds, we are boarding a plane surprisingly close to our scheduled departure time. Someone DID get lucky and it WAS me.

As we board our first flight, the pilot is absolutely giddy to have a plane full of people who are not angry at him or the airline. On the intercom, he apologizes profusely … on behalf of the FAA and the federal government. Ha! I like this guy! The flight attendants are chipper, and I find out why during the beverage service: the airline is not charging for alcoholic beverages on account of the FAA shutdown. As the news trickles down the aisle, the economy cabin starts to feel like spring break in the Florida panhandle. These passengers LOVE these flight attendants, and we arrive in Charlotte like one big, tipsy family. Well played, American Airlines.

Our final flight out of Charlotte has been delayed juuuust long enough that we didn’t miss it (lucky again!), and in forty five minutes we are in the air again, due to land at our destination just an hour later than anticipated. This is incredible. Except. Three quarters of the way through our flight, the pilot announces that he will be turning the plane around and returning to Charlotte due to an unspecified mechanical malfunction. I do not like this. I am rocketing through the sky in a malfunctioning metal box? Will this box make it back to Charlotte? If so, will they be able to find me a functioning sky box or do I live in Charlotte now?

We land in Charlotte (again) uneventfully, but we are not invited to disembark the malfunctioning box. Mentally, I had set my worst case scenario as “stuck in Charlotte” and ignored the possibility of “stuck in Charlotte in an airplane on the tarmac.” Whoops! Time passes, the temperature rises, the air feels … well used. As the collective grumbling crescendos, the pilot finally announces that we may leave our airplane home because the airline has reallocated a different plane that will land in Charlotte in just an hour. Yeah right. But no one cares, we want out of the box and into the terminal.

Time to eat. And drink. We can’t wander on account of the dubiously short turnaround. There is no establishment that will serve both dinner AND drinks. Then, like a beacon: Whisky River. The line is moving quickly, there is live music, I see both food and beverages on tables, and it’s close enough to the gate that we can periodically send a delegate to get eyes on the departure status. Sold. We are seated with the angry strangers at the aforementioned community table. Whatever.

I flag down a waitress and order a drink. She intuitively confirms, “you want a double, right?” Of course I do. A quadruple sounds like too much, but I’d have said yes if she’d asked. The menu lacks inspiration, and I’m so hungry that nothing sounds good. I give up and order nachos, it’s hard to ruin a nacho, and they usually come out quickly. Again, whatever.

The live music is actually pretty good, trading way above expectations. The guy is personable, and is good-naturedly taking requests from the tables in the front (these people are DRUNK and have clearly been listening to him play all day, now I understand that not everyone has been so lucky). I’m wondering how they settled on “Whisky” vs. “Whiskey” – this is clearly meant to be a BBQ joint, making the +”e” an obvious choice. But my drink is good, food is coming, this could be okay.

Then the nachos arrive (spoiler: they are worse than they look):

They look … okay? But the color isn’t quite right? Then I understand, these “nachos” have not seen the toasty warmth of an oven, broiler, or even a heat lamp. These are stale-ish tortilla chips with things on top. Okay, fine.

First bite: mmmmm, the lime crema is good! Creamy and acidic, I must have been too quick to judge. Oh wait, is the chip bending as I bite it? Try again. Second bite: the “queso” tastes like raw flour and has the consistency of kinetic sand. Gross. Third bite, because I haven’t tried the “grilled” chicken: this chicken would be fine … in a can of soup. It is like they literally fished this chicken out of a vat of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken Tortilla Soup. Bingo! These nachos are the expensive solid-food version of canned soup. Mystery solved, but it didn’t go in my favor. I scoop up the crema with the crunchiest looking chips. I can’t decide if I should order something else? Go somewhere else? Starve? Starve it was, because the promised plane arrived ahead of schedule. It turns out American Airlines is the true winner in this travel story.

⭐️⭐️ awarded only for the vodka and live music. I ate (some of) this because I was teetering on the verge of hangry, but I didn’t want to and I didn’t like it.

Bonus musings: An after-the-fact perusal of the website tells me that this is an airport-only chain (“chain” – three locations). This could push the needle in either direction – should I expect systemic mediocrity or are they dedicated to the craft of airport foodservice? Now I know the answer, but I’m left with new questions – how many chains operate only in airports? How did they get started? Why did these restaurateurs pick airports as the sandbox for their culinary dreams? Is it the guarantee of a captive audience or is there a big dreamer out there somewhere who’s absolutely crushing it? If she’s out there, I haven’t found her yet.