As I was flying out of Dulles International last month, I stopped at a pizza stand and bought a meal-sized pizza from a restaurant that doubled as a bar. As I ate it, the bartender asked me if it tasted good. I nodded and said ‘‘Yeah, 'sgood.’’ or something to that effect. But he repeated his question, almost insistently.

I thought to myself, though I was tired already from standing in line all day yesterday for my passport, waiting for buses, hurriedly throwing together changes of clothes, etc. Did I actually like the pizza I was eating? I couldn't really find anything remarkable about it one way or the other. The bread was a bit unusual, and it had been cooked quickly (but thoroughly) in front of me, so the texture was different than what I would have gotten from a local chain. Nothing about the pizza was offending or unappetizing.

I again replied to the bartender in the affirmative. And then he turned a little away from me and, still wiping down the counter, said ‘‘Everyone says the pizza tastes good.’’. His tone was casual, but with a masked air of sadness - even disappointment. There was a pause as I finished wolfing down the pizza. I wished him a pleasant weekend, then arose and left for the terminal.

And now, a month later, I can still remember the tone in his voice. It was as if he had waiting for some sign that I had failed to give. As if he had asked that question to every customer for years, hoping some gourmet would respond ‘‘No, it's SHIT!’’, or some profoundly honest man would say ‘‘Not really, it's just airport food.’’ and thereby redeem humanity in his eyes.

I'm sorry, bartender. I was tired already, with a long journey ahead of me, and I don't really care about my food that much. I just wanted to get something to eat before my flight, and the pizza was fine.