Food Court Makes a Lasting Memory

Friday, October 12, 2007

Page 11

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

Food Court Makes a Lasting Memory

By J’AMY PACHECO

I never thought I’d miss a food court.

I definitely didn’t think I’d miss the one I discovered provided the only available sustenance at our hotel on our recent vacation to Disney World in Florida. In fact, the first time I saw it, I cursed the hotel’s lack of room service and wondered how I’d manage to collect breakfast each day for our three-generation party, one of whom was a child and one of whom uses a wheelchair.

Finding out taking meals at our hotel meant we’d have to eat in a food court wasn’t my first inkling that the trip might not go off exactly as planned. The first hint came on the initial leg of our flight, which required us to change planes in Phoenix.

Changing planes turned out to be a good thing, because ours was a little propeller job. The flight attendant advised us the journey would take about an hour and a half — and that she hoped we’d all used the restroom before we left. The plane did in fact have a restroom.

“But it’s very small, and it smells bad, and it has no potable water,” she explained. “You’ll have to search under the sink for sanitizing hand wipes.” Oddly enough, not one passenger answered the call of nature on our flight across the desert.

But the experience was okay, until we got to Phoenix and the promised wheelchair for my mother didn’t show. My daughter really had to go, as they say, so my mother waved us off and said she’d meet us at our next gate. We left her leaning on her walker, hoping that somebody would fetch her before the tiny plane with the stinky, microscopic bathroom had to take off again.

She lucked out, because while we trudged from one end of the airport to the other laden with carry-on luggage for three, she hitched a ride with a spiffy electric cart and beat us there.

On our second plane, flight attendants offered us a tempting array of morning foods for purchase, including plates of assorted fresh fruits and breakfast sandwiches. One set of flight attendants started hawking their wares at the front of the plane, while others started at the back. By the time they reached us, in the middle, they were out of everything except a “Fun Pack.” My little girl ate tortilla chips and salsa, a Nestles Crunch Bar and some kind of squishy cheese for breakfast.

I thought we’d fill our nutritional void when we checked in. Imagine my surprise when, hours later, I discovered the food court was our only option.

Although the sun was already setting, we headed for our first theme park to find food. We searched in vain until I finally parked my mother’s wheelchair and set out on my own. I returned victorious, and we spent our first evening munching dried out hamburgers and watching a spectacular fireworks show.

The next morning, I was determined to make the food court thing work. I left my mother and daughter snoozing in the room while I set out to conquer breakfast. I was greeted by the sight of several men trudging toward the food court, plastic coffee mugs in hand. At first glance, they looked like the walking dead. (Come to think of it, they still looked that way at second glance.) But one of the zombie dads explained to me that the plastic mugs were refillable, and could be used every morning to bring some wake-up juice to the room.

Other experienced guests pointed out where to find things like cold orange juice, freshly scrambled eggs and adorable waffles in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s famous head. By the time I’d filled a tray, the food court was growing on me.

Four days later, I was hooked. I knew what time we’d have to return at night to be able to buy and pop microwave popcorn at the food court, and how early I could show up to get in and out quickly with “room service.” Although we had some outstanding dining experiences in the four theme parks we visited, I found it was the hotel food court that prompted the most frequent requests from my roommates.

We had a wonderful vacation that included visits to two states, and did more in those 10 days than I’ve done in the last 10 weeks. For some reason, it’s that food court that calls to me — the same way it seemed to call to those early morning zombie dads. But since I’m 3,000 miles away, I guess I won’t be trudging over anytime soon.

Ah, well. At least I still have the mug. But instead of coffee, it’s filled with memories – of my daughter’s smile at seeing her Mickey waffles, of three generations sharing breakfast in an exciting new place and of late nights spent munching popcorn and planning the next day’s adventure.

Good times, as they say.