Eating in Captivity

Numerous things are wrong with airline travel these days; I've no intention of enumerating all of them. What was once a luxurious and rapid method of transcontinental movement has become on the one hand cheaper and on the other infinitely less pleasant. Stresses abound: do I have anything sharp or gun-shaped in my luggage? Is my water-bottle empty? Are my shoes made of steel, and what about my glasses and belt and, at one particularly odd stop, ankles? Are my ankles magnetic today?

Once through security the joys scarcely slow. From Olympic Events (the 1, 5, and 10 kilometer Gate Change) to bio hazards of every sneezing, sniffling, whooping-coughing shape, size, and form, the airport never seems to offer the same challenge twice -- unless its an envoy from the Screaming Children's Guild, which typically have no fewer than three constituents.
 
And what could be better than sealing yourself into a metal tube, in the balmy embrace of a re-circulated atmosphere (sharing is caring!), and being flung through the upper reaches of the sky for an hour or twelve? Your seat, with which you'll become intimately acquainted, was carefully designed to be almost, but not quite, entirely unlike comfortable -- just a glimmer of ergonomics leak through the otherwise visigothic design, inviting you to spend the flight squirming about on a quest for the position in which your body is, on average, not all that uncomfortable.

What joy.

What could shine brighter, be more a beacon of hope in this pit of hell than something really delicious? Tarte tatin, maybe, or a steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings? Fresh fruit! Now that's the thing for an awful plane flight. Served with good cheese and crackers, washed down with Riesling, sparkling water, or a tonic of ginger and honey, I can think of few things that would rejuvenate the body quite like the crisp sweetness of new crop Washington fuji apples and bartlet pears. Sandwiches would make a fine éntré; even with mediocre roast beef, the allure of fresh vegetables and thick-cut bread create a marvelously satisfying (and fairly nutritious) way to sup while at home or traveling.

The actual state of affairs bears no resemblance to any of the above delicacies. As I write this, I'm eating a "Grande Chicken Burrito" from a place going by the dubious name of "Fresh City." More a motley array of passably edible fillings entombed in a glutinous wrapper, my meal falls somewhere between mulch and kibble in terms of both flavor and texture. My selection of this particular dispensary of woe was based on a simple criteria: it wasn't McDonald's. Now, the spectacularly sketchy looking pizza joint next door wasn't McDonald's either, but it violated another rule: naming an eatery after the state of California is neither accurate nor appetizing, and it certainly doesn't induce any assumptions of quality or freshness. (Especially when the pizza kitchen in question is located in the Newark Airport.)

My choices at other airports was little better. For some fiendish reason, larger airports are populated not with better, but with MORE restaurants -- usually bigger name franchises with larger facades and flashier advertising. Here, one trades the vagrancies of small-time ne'er-do-wells for the larger bills of well-known names. The problem is obvious: the enjoyability of a given terrible food is, in most cases, inversely proportionate to the cost. In airports, everything costs more -- and thus tastes worse, irritates us more, nourishes less, raises fewer spirits.

It would be painfully easy to revolutionize this. A decent restaurant selling good, cheap food would be a godsend to the act of flying. Imagine coming through security, settling into a ruinously uncomfortable plastic chair, and spending twenty minutes with a bowl of really good tomato soup and a fresh grilled cheese sandwich. What would happen, do you suppose, if a burrito vendor remembered the true nature of a burrito: cheap, delicious, and made from the tastiest ingredients, not the trendiest? Revolution. Dancing in the streets. Or, at least, a good meal between flights. 

Comments

[Bether]

Try eating vegetarian in some airports...once, while traveling recently, the only food I found that did not contain meat was the cheese pizza at Pizza Hut. Talk about uninspiring.

[Monicissima]

It's good to have you writing again, and in such fine form. With the relative effortlessness of a good tomato soup and grilled cheese combo, it bewilders me that airport food is so atrocious. AirPLANE food, on the other hand... well. I was nudged into business class once, and between perusing the menu and drinking complimentary champagne, I was convinced that coach food is meant as a reproach for not spending more money.

[Stove]

Bether: a point very well made. Since the American Crap Food establishment seems to believe that vegetarians subsist entirely on Cesar Salad, it would be dire indeed to have to survive an airport/line without packing your own chow.

Monicissima: the food on planes seems to be hit or miss -- and if you miss, some part of you isn't going to be pleased. I agree, however, with your analysis; buisiness class is a damn sight better. My father, mind you, recounts tales of the days when First Class meant choosing your own cut of prime rib from the little cart that wheeled it about the cabin. We've come (fallen?) a long way...

[Crash]

I may have mentioned this previously, but the wisdom I've acquired in my countless hours of flight is this: bring your own food. Always. No exceptions, even if all you bring is an assortment of granola bars, fruit, bagels and cookies. Easily packable fare may not be exciting, but it will be palatable, and you can rest assured that it will not cause life-threatening illness.

*steps off of soapbox*