Things we love about Britain: the Beatles. Boy George not giving a damn. The fact that only 22 percent of Brits can stand Meghan Markle. Forget Greenland, Mr. Trump, can’t we jus have the Cotswolds instead?
We also lo— well, really like British Airways. In air travel’s new medieval era where the top 2 percent have it jollycakes while everyone else suffers like a Frenchman who’s been forced to tip, BA is actually reliable. As we’ve just said, it’s possibly the best airline to Europe because of connectivity via Heathrow. If you can manage to get a deal on a ticket from anywhere in the U.S. to Athens and all you need to do is transfer from one side of T5 to another, you’ve got it made.
Just make sure you eat before you get on board.
On previous British Airways flight we were served some Indian-themed meal so bad that flight attendants were snickering about it and passengers were sending it back. The best Indian food can send your taste buds to Hindu heaven, but what they proffered was straight out of Hindu hell’s kitchen. When we complained to British Airways media office, someone said they’d pass along our concerns to their “team.”
Well, judging by two more recent experiences, BA’s press team is permanently out to lunch. To wit, a breakfast meal that smelled like a toxic dump and tasted worse.
Oh wait, make that two breakfast meals.
On a long-haul flight, chances are that at some point no matter how well you sated yourself in the terminal you’re going to get hungry. It’s called travel. Makes you alert, makes you exhausted, makes you wish you stayed home when you realize how little corporations care about your basic existence.
“Would you like the vegan pancakes or scrambled eggs and sausage?” was the question heard on two recent occasions, after a night of being wedged into deliberately uncomfortable airplane seat kicked at regular intervals from the jackass sitting behind.
Each time, thought of a tasty, or at least edible breakfast tray that might hold its own, if in smaller portion, with breakfast at McDonalds.
Not looking for gourmet here, in other words — just passable.
British Airways, you failed hard.
Both times, a rubbery yellowish-white jibbery-jubbery mass than can’t even be called egg-like, and that tastes like congealed acetate. A grim curved rubbery sausage that frankly looks weird and smells how you think a sweaty seal penis would smell, if seals could sweat.
It get worse.
Each time, a drizzle of blood engorged bedbug-sized mini mushroom knobs, wondering between fake egg blob and sealy-penis sausage what offense they committed to God or Allah to make British Airways catering wreak this kind of non-culinary torture on passengers.
British Airways, make my flight late. Seat me in between a seat kicker and a non-stop cougher, delight in the fact that no, my touch-screen still doesn’t work even after you reset it twice. All the foregoing can be handled.
But may I kindly suggest you do not fucking dare to put mushrooms on a breakfast tray, or the palest saddest imitation of one, without asking me first? I have standards, and I do not eat just anything that comes my way.
I am not Meghan Markle.
And you, British Airways catering, have got some work to do. Get it sorted.
