Fare in the air
Petronella Wyatt
Where is this deli?' asked the woman passenger next to me of the stewardess with eyes like Adriatic rock pools — grey and rimmed with thick black. 'We are not going to Delhi, madam,' she replied with bureaucratic hauteur. 'We are going to Venice.'
'I know,' said the woman passenger. 'But where is this deli?' She pointed to the plastic lid of food she had been given. Written across the top were the words 'All Day Deli'. 'Is this deli in London?' she persisted. 'It isn't anywhere,' said the stewardess, barely able to conceal her exasperation. 'It's what the food is called now on British Airways.'
'Well, it's horrible,' the woman said. The stewardess was amazed, as if someone had stuffed a live halibut down her regulation jumper. 'I'm so unhappy,' she said in a voice trembling with sarcasm.
I looked at my own plastic tub. The stewardess had said it was chicken salad. I could distinguish the salad, a withered leaf or two and a tomato with a face like one of Louis XVI's royal aunts, but where was the chicken? There was a small collection of what appeared to be pink marbles. On prodding one with my fork the exterior gave way to reveal some white flesh — this evidently was the chicken. I put it in my mouth. This turned out to be an error. The thing tasted like an explosive dipped in chilli.
'Hey,' I said to the stewardess after I had spat it out. 'That woman was right. This is the most disgusting thing I have ever tasted.' She turned on her heels.
It wasn't the first time. For about six months BA has been producing this 'All Day Deli' stuff. I have fond memories of when the food used to be a roll, cheese in a wrapper and a slice of chocolate cake. Then, like the food in the NHS, the economy grub was given a rehaul. You have a choice of two 'ethnic' dishes. One, or both, usually has a mound of cous-cous pressed to the bottom of the plastic tub.
Two elderly English passengers were similarly distressed. 'Is this semolina?' asked the wife. 'And if so, why does it have peppers in it'?' Don't get me wrong — ethnic food is great but not when it is prepared for the economy cabins of British Airways.
I have started taking my own food on board. You can buy potted shrimps at Heathrow and a packet of cut-price smoked salmon. Last week I bought a tin of pâté. Having had three pairs of scissors confiscated at the check-in, I had little hope of opening it. So I asked a steward. 'No, we can't open it for you.' he said determinedly. 'You might use the sharp implement for another purpose.' That was a possibility, of course — like sticking out my toe from sheer frustration.
Earlier on I had asked a steward to help me put a piece of heavy hand-luggage into the overhead compartment. This was after I had been told I was not permitted to keep it under the scat in front. 'Well, can you give me a hand lifting it, then'? It's quite heavy.' 'No, I can't,' What?"I can't help you lift anything. I'm not insured.' His face assumed a sulky expression. 'I might hurt myself and I don't want to lose my job.' *Oh, really.' My soul rose up in revolt to defy him. 'Well, I won't put it up there then.' You have to, madam. You can't keep it at your feet.' 'Then you had better help me.' I can't.' he whined. 'I'm not allowed to.' By whom? By God?' We had reached an impasse. I would not lift the offending item and he would not help me.
At that juncture, one of his male colleagues appeared down the aisle. 'Your colleague,' I informed him, 'won't help me lift my luggage. What if I were a woman of 90, who really couldn't lift heavy objects?' He looked at his sweating colleague and then back at me. He knew defeat was inevitable. He made a dive for my bag and placed it in the overhead compartment himself.
On the way hack from Venice I flew Alitalia. The beginning of this journey was not propitious. We were ushered up some plastic steps into a craft with only 48 seats. The aisle was so narrow you couldn't have rolled a tennis ball down it. There were some well-heeled Euro people on their way back from a wedding. One of the girls looked at her friend and expostulated, 'This isn't any bigger than Franco's private jet.'
Perhaps there would be no food at all, let alone alcoholic relief. Half-way through the flight while I was reading a large book on 18th-century France, something shuffled down the aisle. It turned out to he the most exquisitely perfect airline food this side of Singapore. This left me wondering why, if the Italians can do the business, the supposedly august British Airways has become so intolerably laggardly. Perhaps we should listen to Berlusconi more.
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