The Ultimate Club Sandwich -- A Travellers' Tale

It is almost nine years since I was last in the United States, and that visit was only for a few days in Philadelphia while my wife attended a conference. It was the last stop on a trip for which the conference had been the excuse. From Australia we travelled to Vienna, Venice, Cologne in Germany for a week with our son and his wife, then a weekend in Paris, and three weeks touring England and Scotland.

We arrived at London's Heathrow Airport in plenty of time to regretfully hand back the sporty little Ford Escort in which we had travelled almost 2500 miles around Britain. After a light canteen lunch, we boarded our British Airways flight to New York. We sat on the aircraft which then sat at the terminal for almost an hour because the air traffic control computer covering the whole of the North Atlantic was down. Eventually, we were on our way and emerged from the flight at JFK airport in New York, where the fun really started.

It was hot at JFK, very, very hot -- like the mid-90s -- and very, very humid. We non-U.S. citizens were herded into an underground tunnel until, at last, those of us who had not melted completely were cleared through Immigration and Customs, only to discover that it is hotter, stickier, and even more chaotic outside. We took a cab and went in search of the PAN AM domestic terminal. Our driver is an Indian – no, I don't mean a Native American – whose name was Gupta. I don't think he had ever been to JFK before or knew that Philadelphia was in the United States, but, with directions from a couple of friendly porters at another terminal and, I suspect, Divine intervention, we ended up in the right place.

Finding the terminal was one thing; getting on an aircraft was another. Many flights had been delayed due to the weather and the PAN AM computer was down, having gotten itself into a lather of sweat like the rest of us. After a long wait, broken by visits to the bar for beer, a flight to Philadelphia was called and we secured the last two seats. This battered little aircraft with its two turbo-prop engines felt positively unsafe after the 747 in which we crossed the Atlantic. Even though the sun had set long ago, we sweated profusely for another hour while this tiny aircraft waited at the terminal and then in the queue to take off. Against all odds, we arrived in Philadelphia in time to await the arrival of our baggage on a later flight.

By the time we checked into the hotel, it was almost midnight, and all the food services, even room service, had closed for the night. It had been a long time since that canteen lunch in London and a few delicate little sandwiches somewhere over the Atlantic. We were too hungry to sleep, so we discussed our problem with the cheerful Hispanic doorman who directed us to a nearby bar and grill. The buzz of conversation stopped, as though a switch was thrown, when we opened the door and a dozen pairs of African-American eyes held us in their steady gaze.

"And where are you folks from?" the waitress asked.

"From London today." I answered loudly enough to be heard by the ears belonging to the watching eyes.

"London, England!" she exclaimed in a tone which suggested that international travellers do not eat there regularly.

"Yes. But we are really from Australia."

The watching eyes left us and conversations began again, first as a hum and then a buzz, while we were ushered to a table and shown the menu. After some discussion we decided on a club sandwich each. We agreed that this was not a sandwich, this was a meal! Sandwich, fries, salad, and who knows what else lurked amongst this mass of food on our plates. When it comes to slow food, a good American club sandwich would take some beating.