I say reassuring, because airline food is all about comfort – nothing else. Unlike other meals, its taste is not in any way a function of the ingredients or the molecular changes effected by the introduction of heat (what the dull and sublunary call ‘cooking’), but solely a product of the diner’s own anxiety. The airlines know this full well, which is why they dish up a lot of food in many dinky little portions, and why almost all of those portions so closely resemble sedative potato dauphinoise – or anxiolytic Irish stew. The nervy flyer, wedged in between John Grisham fans and contemplating a death that for sheer, quotidian pathos – Died in that air crash, you say? On her way to a city break in Tallinn? Blimey, what a pointless way to go – is only equalled by slipping in the shower stall on a cake of Imperial Leather, will reach joyfully for the proffered tray because, after all, if you’re eating you must be alive, no?
Will Self e a comida de avião (quando ainda havia comida de avião e não apenas uma sandes - se estivermos com sorte), em The Unbearable Lightness of Being a Prawn Cracker, um dos melhores títulos de sempre na literatura gastronómica.
Vem a propósito, porque vamos de férias - voamos amanhã e espero voltar com receitas de Verão: amêijoas, inevitáveis, mas provavelmente mais qualquer coisa... Até já!
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