So Monday was another holiday spent traveling for work. Even with the usual Power Point deadline hanging above my head, I had plenty of time to kill waiting for the red-eye from LAX to Philadelphia. So after a few drinks watching a lackluster Celtics effort against the Miami Heat, I passed on the pub grub and went looking for a better bite to eat.
While I don't recall ever actually eating at a Wolfgang Puck restaurant, airport or otherwise, my impression of the brand was mildly favorable. In fact, I have never thought much at all about Wolfgang Puck except to note that (1) they seem to be most popular in airport terminals, and (2) I never really understood gourmet pizza.
That being said, the Puck restaurant in LAX Terminal 7 is the closest thing to a college cafeteria that I've seen, well, since my beer-swilling days at Northeastern University's Rathskellar bar. Besides garish colors and overly bright lighting, the room seems cavernous and the center is oddly devoid of tables. Are they expecting us to dance for our dinner? (Unfortunately, no, it's just a big, half-empty room.)
Every airport bar automatically qualifies as a traveler's oasis, so I'll mute any criticism of this one. The food is actually pretty good, and the place is clean. But I can't resist mentioning Puck's sherbet walls and the ugliest pendant lights west of the Cayahoga River. Both features prove my point that the room is a flashback to the golden age of teased hair and pastel aerobics leotards. Think Hot Tub Time Machine, without the hot tub. It's no surprise that Puck's Spago and its offspring eateries had their heyday in the 80's and 90's, because the namesake chef has kept a foot in that bygone era.
I almost wish Wolfgang would embrace his period vibe, rock some Psychedelic Furs and make the waitstaff dress like Molly Ringwald. It would make Wolfgang Puck seem retro-hip, instead of looking like an odd non sequitur waiting for a long-overdue facelift.
Good Points:
- gourmet pizza doesn't suck
- nobody stays at the bar long enough to get drunk, so the floors aren't sticky like they were in college
- the bartender made a good pour of Walker Black, once he figured out my order and dusted off the bottle
- Like opening a time capsule, you get to revisit the Reagan years without having to dress that way again
Bad Points:
- the bartender requires extra patience and only understands slow, hyper-articulated speech
While I don't recall ever actually eating at a Wolfgang Puck restaurant, airport or otherwise, my impression of the brand was mildly favorable. In fact, I have never thought much at all about Wolfgang Puck except to note that (1) they seem to be most popular in airport terminals, and (2) I never really understood gourmet pizza.
That being said, the Puck restaurant in LAX Terminal 7 is the closest thing to a college cafeteria that I've seen, well, since my beer-swilling days at Northeastern University's Rathskellar bar. Besides garish colors and overly bright lighting, the room seems cavernous and the center is oddly devoid of tables. Are they expecting us to dance for our dinner? (Unfortunately, no, it's just a big, half-empty room.)
Every airport bar automatically qualifies as a traveler's oasis, so I'll mute any criticism of this one. The food is actually pretty good, and the place is clean. But I can't resist mentioning Puck's sherbet walls and the ugliest pendant lights west of the Cayahoga River. Both features prove my point that the room is a flashback to the golden age of teased hair and pastel aerobics leotards. Think Hot Tub Time Machine, without the hot tub. It's no surprise that Puck's Spago and its offspring eateries had their heyday in the 80's and 90's, because the namesake chef has kept a foot in that bygone era.
I almost wish Wolfgang would embrace his period vibe, rock some Psychedelic Furs and make the waitstaff dress like Molly Ringwald. It would make Wolfgang Puck seem retro-hip, instead of looking like an odd non sequitur waiting for a long-overdue facelift.
Good Points:
- gourmet pizza doesn't suck
- nobody stays at the bar long enough to get drunk, so the floors aren't sticky like they were in college
- the bartender made a good pour of Walker Black, once he figured out my order and dusted off the bottle
- Like opening a time capsule, you get to revisit the Reagan years without having to dress that way again
Bad Points:
- the bartender requires extra patience and only understands slow, hyper-articulated speech
- the room is oddly sad, like discovering that something you once liked wasn't all that great after all
