After 4 planes and 5 airports I arrived in Brooklyn Park Minnesota, without delay. Apart from the inadmissible turbulence and a cranky old woman who sat behind me, the plane trips went as any plane trips should; avoiding falling out of the sky in a fiery inferno. I did however, feel as though I was in some sort of alternate universe on the aircrafts of United Airlines. It seems this is where male flight attendants go when they are no longer pleasant and perky. The silver-haired crew of this run-down assembly captured my attention, as I spent the majority of the trip wondering how most of them continued to be employed with their less than jovial personalities. After the meals had been served I was made privy to one reason they may have acquired this disdainful air. The food.
I know. Aeroplane food is famous for being terrible so I was not expecting in any way shape or form a gourmet menu. But with the advancements in cooking and food preparation, and my limited yet positive experience from my last international flight, I did expect the food to be palatable. I was sorely mistaken. While we were cordially warned that due to the full plane capacity, not to expect a choice of meals, we were expecting something that would sustain us the rest of the flight. And to be honest, the evening meal choice of tortellini or chicken and rice was edible and almost pleasant. It was breakfast I had a problem with. Once again, the warning that not everyone would get their first choice came over the speaker with a threatening air. Presented with an option of fruit or eggs; I chose eggs, in the hope this would sustain my hunger enough not to have to ask for another bag of pretzels and receive the familiar look of annoyance as the inconvenience of actually providing service became apparent.
My eggs (if in fact that is what they were) were a shade I had never seen in an egg before. This was my first warning that my choice to appease my hunger had let me down. The almost fluorescent orange glowed ominously up at me. They came with what I have to assume was a sausage, though the grey colour it was sporting made it hard to tell. It also had two mushrooms from a can, and I know this because I naively tried one. A choice I instantly regretted. On deciding to at least poke at these eggs with my provided plastic fork, I discover they were hard. I’m not talking hard boiled. I’m talking hard, rubberised, scrambled eggs. It was at this point I decided I was no longer hungry. Not even for pretzels.