I’m seated at a high-top by the bar at Hillstone on Park Avenue South in New York City. Hillstone is a national chain, although not all the restaurants are called “Hillstone” — some are called “Houston’s” or “East Hampton Grill” to avoid the downmarket stain of chaindom. They serve upscale American food, sort of steakhouse adjacent: burgers, Caesars, shrimp cocktail. Between the inoffensively rich clientele, the decor I’ll describe as “Pacific modern,” and enough egress between the open kitchen and bar to haul one’s carry-on with ease, it feels like I’m at the nicest restaurant at the Dallas airport. The DFW quality is not a product of placelessness, or a sense of liminal sadness; it’s not a demerit. Its evocation of a transit hub is, rather, Hillstone’s greatest strength. This is the sure thing, the place you would go if you had three hours to kill before your flight and you wanted to be absolutely positive you were getting the coldest martini in the terminal.
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