British Airways food the dining low point of the year
British Airways flight 2154, Seven miles up Somewhere over the Atlantic
Rating: No stars
Richard McComb goes sky high to find the dining low point of the year.
Terror comes in many unexpected forms and mine arrived at 38,000ft, served on a plastic tray.
It looked harmless enough, the full horror of British Airways’ in-flight catering hidden under industrial wrappings of foil, cling film and cellophane.
The presentation was designed to lull the diner into a false sense of security, the food equivalent of the kindly granny in a slasher movie who smiles sweetly at the priest before pulling a meat cleaver from her knitting bag.
The previous night, I had dined at one of the swankiest restaurants along the west coast of Barbados.
I didn’t expect British Airways to compete with Champagne cocktails, warm lobster salad and chocolate soufflé, but I did expect to be given something edible, edibility tending to be a prerequisite for food.
But here we were, seven miles up, staring into the depths of hell’s kitchen. From Sandy Lane to culinary shame in less than 24 hours.
The omens weren’t good when I discovered I was sitting next a huge blinged-up passenger stuffing his face with fried chicken and chips, bought at one of Grantley Adams Airport’s fast-food outlets.
Poor show, I thought, scoffing a whiffy take-away on an aircraft. If only I knew then what I would later discover, I would have paid my travelling companion for the pleasure of licking protein from his tongue.
We were an hour-and-a-half into the flight, tracking north-east over the Atlantic at 550mph, when the nightmare began.
My fellow economy-class passengers on BA flight 2154 had already been served their meals. I was holding out, hoping for a better offer.
TV presenter Natasha Kaplinsky was in Club class. She can’t eat that much. Maybe they’d give me her left-overs.
On the outward flight, I had asked the cabin services director (the CSD, or head stewardess) if it was possible to try the premium-class food. I am a food critic and this is what I do for a living: I try out different foods.
No-one baulks at the idea of a football writer asking for a good seat to report on a match. Sometimes, the correspondent is privileged to watch a great game and other times, it is appalling. The same goes for reviewing food.
The lovely CSD out of Gatwick couldn’t give me any assurances. Both First and Club classes were full and she didn’t know how much food would be left – but she said she would try her best.
True to her word, I was ushered forward and given a private space in a curtained-off “jump” seat where I was served a few glasses of Champagne, a pretty good mozzarella salad with tangy relish and a dish of baked salmon with chicory and potatoes. All told, not bad; good service too.
I hoped for a similar experience on the return leg and approached the CSD, the formidable Mimi.
I explained that I was at the end of a gourmet tour of Barbados and it would make a nice angle for my piece to go out on a high (ish) note with some good food.
Mimi asked me to take a seat; she’d see. I was hopeful. Another member of the cabin crew was hopeful. He smiled, albeit nervously.
Then Mimi came back and asked me, politely, to naff on back to cattle class.
She might as well have said: “You cheeky, bloody upstart.” And you may well agree with her – and if you do, there’s a good chance you run a crappy restaurant. One doesn’t get anywhere in journalism if one lacks tenacity and I figured there was maybe a ten per cent chance that Mimi and her team might still find some crumbs from the rich passengers’ tables with which to tempt your seething critic.
I toughed it out and held my nose while the trays were passed around in economy.
A stewardess informed me that my request for edible food was still being considered. Was I all right hanging on? Not at all, I said. Time passed.
The outside temperature dropped to -51C.
We headed east of Bermuda. It now appeared there was a greater likelihood of disappearing into the infamous Triangle than there was of getting a decent meal.
Another stewardess appeared, stony-faced and broke the grim news. It was a Holby City “Your New Bride’s Just Died After A Rare Reaction To Smoked Salmon” moment.
Service was still under way in First Class and Mimi didn’t think what was left would be “suitable” for me, I was told. Would I like a normal meal?
I said I’d give it a go, a cold sweat breaking out across my brow.
Then it arrived: the meal that time forgot.
