This column usually reflects on food, either here in Alberta or in New Zealand, where I live and work part of the year.
But today’s food was neither here nor there, but somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, en route to Canada.
It was a Murphy’s Law kind of day. At the airport, my request for a business upgrade had them falling off their chairs laughing.
Then they used the S-word: standby.
Halfway to the gate I looked at my boarding pass. It wasn’t standby. It was a confirmed seat for somebody named Mukradghee-Schultz, heading for Heathrow.
Back to the desk. More merriment over poor Mrs. Mukradghee-Schultz, who may not have noticed that she’s off to someplace called Edmonton.
Lucky me, I get the last seat (literally) in the last cabin, the one smushed into the corner. Between me and the aisle are two large men, including one sweaty rugby player. Short pants, hairy legs, the works. We’re barely in the air when they’re demanding beer. I check my watch. Just 12 more hours.
Never mind, here comes dinner. But lo, my tasty vegetarian option hasn’t made the flight. Maybe it’s off to Heathrow with Mrs. Mukradghee-Schultz. Instead, I get lamb casserole (they’ve run out of chicken). The lamb smells oddly muttony.
Attempting to channel my negative feelings, I decide to watch the reliably annoying Gordon Ramsay on TV. Among all the yawn-inducing drivel that currently afflicts food television, potty-mouthed Ramsay is different. He’s guaranteed to make me spittin’ mad. At this precise moment, being mad at Ramsay is positively therapeutic. It takes the pressure off the nasty lamb casserole and Hairy Rugby Guy.
Suddenly the aircraft begins to buck like a steer. The captain comes on the blower to state the obvious: “We’ve hit unexpected turbulence.”
Meal service crashes to a halt as the aircraft gives a mighty heave. One of the food trolleys breaks loose and tips over in the back galley. Drinks sloshing, food flying, babies crying, call bells dinging, flight attendants scurrying to pick up fallen trays and manage the damage.
Lamb casserole everywhere.
It’s the captain again. Just another 15 minutes, says the jolly voice. Fifteen minutes, and we’ll be across the equator and out of this.
Oh goody, the equator. Nothing down there but hot water and sharks. Me? I’m a lousy swimmer.
Wine. I need wine.
I flag down the flustered flight attendant who is carrying a bottle in each hand.
JS: If you’re pouring, I’d like a
drink please.
FA: You don’t have a glass.
JS: Right. You took it away.
FA: Where’s your glass?
JS: You’ve taken my glass.
FA: But you need a glass!
JS: Forget the glass! Just leave the bottle.
Plane shuddering and bouncing. Think rodeo, Brahma bulls, bucking broncs. Captain on the blower again, no longer jolly-voiced, ordering flight attendants to be seated “immediately.”
Meanwhile, on my TV screen, Ramsay is swearing like a parrot. He’s somewhere in the poverty-stricken slums of Mumbai, whining about heat and traffic as some hapless cook with minimal ingredients and one gas ring prepares to feed a few hundred hungry people.
The plane lurches. Sucking gratefully on what’s left of my Sauvignon Blanc, I reflect that things could be worse. In my next life, I could come back as Gordon Ramsay’s assistant.
Judy Schultz is a food and travel writer based in Edmonton and Auckland. She’ll take serious swimming lessons before her next trans-Pacific flight.