In Memphis, I have plenty of time to grab something to eat before the long flight to L.A., so I forgo the plastic food court in favor of a proper, sit down restaurant for grownups. Unable to locate one, I settle for the Sun Records restaurant assuming that the food with be somewhat more authentic, fresh, and possibly even satisfying.

I’m wrong on all counts. Like the rest of America, this food was assembled in a Thai sweatshop — cheap, fast, and ready to be overpriced. Everything is fried to the point of petrification, impossible to cut with the terrorist-safe plastic ware and too hot to eat with your fingers. The steamed “spring” vegetables have the taste and consistency of artificial Styrofoam greenery from a hobby shop. Only the beer is cold . . . but I have to order it three times before it arrives.

And, I’m sorry, but when did Mariah Carey record at Sun Records? I only ask because she was on heavy rotation during the overhead muzak. As were those other Missisippi Delta classics, Celine Dion and Fergie.

Awful. I escape, grateful for once to be getting on a plane.