I'm devouring a pile of musky pulled pork when Uzbekistan Airways Flight 102 touches down on U.S. soil, following a 17-hour journey from Tashkent. I watch the landing like a child at a monster truck rally, my face pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Danny Meyer's barbecue joint. This is what we call sense of place. Too many airport restaurants try to make you forget you're in an airport, which is too bad-they end up being cramped, windowless affairs with all the charm of a suburban shopping mall. Meyer instead embraces JFK, removing the walls so the boundary between restaurant and terminal is nearly invisible. It feels open, airy, and alive.
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