I am hungry.
I’m hungry at 29,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. I have 3 hours before I land and then an hours queue through customs before I can even think about feeding myself with some aging sandwich.
This is because I am currently experiencing that feeling anyone who travels by air feels at some point, the pangs that come with being unable to eat the unpalatable concoctions that will be placed in front of you by a gurning stewardess who wants to know do you want disgusting Dish A or Dish B? It’s the hard or rock place choice of inflight food.
When Jean Valjean says “If I speak I am condemned, if I stay silent I am damned” I can’t help put feel this is how most think when presented with the sealed foil containers on a tray. Do I condemn my stomach to a mushy orange lump, or stay silent and damn myself to hunger?
On the way to New York we were presented with the choice of either fish pie or a cheese pasta. As we are in the poor part of the plane all the pasta had disappeared before it got to us. Fish pie is a difficult choice at the best of times, but serving it on a bumpy flight seems like someone has a vendetta against the cleaning crew at the destination.
It must be difficult for the catering manager of an airline to decide what to serve as the inflight food, do you produce a menu that is respective of your nation (as the endless rice dishes I received on Chinese flights while suffering with a bad stomach) or try to pander to the needs of the global traveller who may not be able to stomach your, well whatever that brown sludge is.
Would it be easier to offer the unhealthy option, and perhaps just serve up a sandwich and crisps? You may think this wouldn’t be hard to knock up a decent sandwich but the attempts at either a chicken or cheese sandwich but when I get delivered with an airline’s attempt at John Montagu’s invention I can’t help but think that some companies are unable to cook.
In the meantime I have one saving grace, the bag of pizza flavoured Goldfish crackers in my bag.