As a general rule, I try to avoid eating food that is geographically out of context. For example, if I’m seven hours inland, I have serious questions about how fresh your Fresh Sushi might be. The same hesitation applies to restaurants that serve too many cuisines. Mexican, Thai and Italian on the one menu? I appreciate the ambition, but not as much as I detest the inevitable food poisoning.
As with most people, this dream has remained sadly out of reach. All of my airline travel has been an exercise in surviving economy, hours spent jostling with seat neighbours for an extra inch of armrest real estate while beyond the curtain lay a promised land — a land of free amenity kits and warm towelettes.
Almost immediately, it was everything I had imagined it would be, right down to the overly polite staff exclusively referring to me as Mr Mitchell. “Mr Mitchell, welcome to the business class. Might I interest you in a breakfast cocktail?” Absolutely.Admittedly, there was a hot minute where my imposter syndrome dampened my sense of enjoyment.
I could regale you with tales of my adventures in New York, but let’s be honest, we’ve all had a bagel, but we’ve not all flown business class. So, a few days later, the same smiley attendants greeted me for the return flight, promising I would be back home “before you know it.”Little did they know this was precisely my fear. Returning home meant no more tiny wines for Mr Mitchell, no more lobster on a plane, no one asking if I needed another pillow.