Kishore Singh: Breakfast at the terminal

There are people who love airports - the shops (I never venture beyond the bookshop), restaurants and bars (some of the better airports do have Michelin-quality options), spas (I admit to the occasional foot scrub), duty-free (comparing prices for Jura in Mumbai, London and Hong Kong) - but I am not one of them. What's to like about stripping in front of strangers as a security measure while hoping no one walks off with your laptop? Or having to explain to an immigration officer the difference between art and handicraft without prejudicing him? Would you settle for the recycled, glutinous buffets in most airport lounges if it wasn't free? Have you ever had a meaningful conversation with co-passengers that wasn't about weather, delays or jet lag? Can you honestly say any airport has a distinctive character, most being bland clones of each other?

I wasn't thinking of airports last Sunday over a bellini and tuna salad in a cafe opposite Manhattan's Central Park, perched on a bar stool, eavesdropping on delightfully opinionated tête-à-têtes. "My unboyfriend," a glamorous black woman seated to my right, said to her friend, "really digs antiques." An unboyfriend - the city's trending phrase, I learned later - is a boyfriend with benefits but without the complications of a long-term relationship. The other spoke at length about her half-brother "who lives in a car" because he didn't want his mother to meet his girlfriend, even though she herself hadn't met her brother either but was friends with his girlfriend.

Sunday brunches are a New York institution, particularly in the summer, when the city's young dress up and step out for glasses of champagne and gossip. Tables at the hippest diners are booked weeks in advance, the banter is friendly - several guests asked if I would recommend the bellini - and flirty conversations between strangers are par for the course. I was offered tips on the better shows in town, the sales, and how to score a Canali suit without busting the bank. Yet, privacy is respected: several singles sat around reading books or leafing through magazines.

The following morning I was at JFK, choosing between a pre-packaged breakfast and a champagne option to finally give them both a miss. The onward connection from London the same night ran into trouble when Virgin Atlantic cancelled the flight for technical reasons. Held captive at the airport for several hours, far from any restaurant, thirsty and hungry, we were promised dinner at the hotels being prepped for our arrival. Alas, that never happened when, checking in at two in the morning, the efficiency of Western hospitality lay exposed - an absence of bell staff to carry the bags, no 24x7 diners, cold sandwiches in room service and a closed bar. "There's a McDonald's at two-minutes walking distance," the duty manager suggested when I complained at the lack of facilities in a five-star hotel. Barely hours later, I was back at the airport, grumpy at the sight of the whisky promotions and branded stores where snooty salesmen attended to you only if you looked like a serious buyer and, not like most, simply passing the time till boarding.

What the terminal did have was a Fortnum & Mason counter where breakfast included smoked salmon and a Welsh rarebit toastie, caviar and cheesecake. And, yes, there was champagne. This time, I made no allowance for the early hour, finding a perch at the bar amidst swirls of conversation about time zones, unreasonable bosses, duty-free buys and - you guessed it - unboyfriends.