Here, in Terminal E, the international concourse, they’re honing a menu that is both local and global, traditional and modern. That means an ingot of wild salmon rides on sea-urchin-studded fried rice. A trout fillet gets a pillow of stone-ground grits and a swaddle of mustard vinaigrette. And a quail breast arrives atop a “casserole” of béchamel-bound green beans. The noodles in the chicken noodle soup are actually strands of ramen. A flotilla of Virginia clams bob in a miso broth. A clutch of sweet and salty sea scallops get sweeter when paired with roasted Georgia pecans. And the perfect liquid accompaniment to such delights is a short pour of Snow Maiden sake, presented in a chilled carafe.

Poised at the top of the escalator—just past a contemplative exhibit that catalogs the life of Martin Luther King, Jr., but within sight of a McDonald’s takeaway counter—One Flew South claims an incongruous perch. The trappings are lovely. Buttery leather wraps the bar stools. Heart pine fronts the sushi bar. The flatware is heavy. The napery is thick. As you might expect in a restaurant where customers arrive with clocks in their heads, servers come and go with a brisk efficiency. What’s more, they know the source points of the ingredients that Nutter interprets. And they know how to differentiate, for instance, between the polished and unpolished sakes that Slater pours.

If One Flew South has a fault, it’s the clientele. At times, the restaurant offers up food and service that appear to be too good for the sort of frequent fliers who continue their cell phone conversations as they attack haystacks of arugula, jumbled with port-poached hearts of palm, and wave their credit cards when they want the check. I’m confident that you, dear reader, will not comport yourself in such a way, in such a fine restaurant.