Seated in row 53F of a non-stop from Newark to aamchi Mumbai, i squirmed as 52F performed the inevitable act of reclining his seat to the fullest. The burly one to my left was fast asleep, drooling on my shoulder, even as the woman to my right balanced her home-made khakras upon the armrest.
Crouched in a fetal pose, i had fed on peanuts and now grappled with a lone grape that resisted my fork attack.I had transitioned from starters to dessert all in the same plastic tray in less than a minute. The main course was not in my food karma since the airline had botched my vegetarian meal request as usual.
The flight attendants had already sashayed to the next row to serve them their poison. If i could do a 16-hour stretch with my head between my knees, i must be able to survive without the main course.
Not so with the demigods of business class. No sooner had the flight service started than that secret curtain separating business and economy was swished shut, sequestering the elite from the crass. By the continual jingle-jangle of silverware and the heady aroma wafting through the galley, i wondered what courses of exotic cuisine were being dished out in bone china with a flower vase to boot.
Over the years, i have quickly come to realise that more than the choice of hors d'oeuvres and entrees, it is really service that separated the citizens on either side of the curtain. In first or business class, your food comes with a menu itemised by fancy-sounding French words followed by a mouth-watering description.
Lolling in that 180-degree reclining leather seat 1A, you won't be shaken awake from slumber by the shoulder. Nor, for that matter, will they leave you hungry if the airline doesn't have the Asian Vegetarian (AVML) selection that you requested. Instead, they will take a fruit slice or two from a leftover fruit platter (FPML) and add a carrot from a raw vegetarian platter (RVML), throwing in a truffle culled from a first-class plate.
