Charlie’s Trots

So, here it is – my 12th or 13th “trip of a lifetime.”  (I’ve been lucky enough to work in the hospitality business, I’ve been to some fancy places in my life.)  Frankly, when I travel domestically, I limit my business to more egalitarian airlines (Southwest, Jet Blue, the upcoming Virgin America) because I can’t stand the class system the rest of them of them have embraced.  But when traveling internationally, I have to succumb.  American Express has a nifty service where you can buy airline tickets for points, so I forked over all my hard-earned bits and procured a business-class ticket to Frankfurt, then Venice.

So I got to check in faster, go through a special security line, and plop my bum in a huge seat.  I tried to enjoy myself, knowing that this was only a temporary reprieve from my usual status as a head of cattle.  I perused the little menu card they handed me.   It was decorated with tiny vine-enfurled “T’s.”  “What,” I said to myself, “Charlie Trotter made this food!  How nice.  I think I’ll have some.”  And indeed, I went for the Trotter-created menu selections, which included a sweet crab salad with fresh bok choy, and Thai barbecue organic boneless short ribs with more bok choy and caramelized pearl onions.  Amazing.   And bring on the wine!  They seemed to be out of the Cotes-du-Rhone, but they had a Chateau Donissan Haut-Médoc that was quite quaffable.   I curled up with my new Harry Potter book and looked forward to 8 to 12 hours of pure relaxation.

Well, I almost got my wish.  And the food was good, BTW.  Remarkable, in fact, for an airline meal.  (I can remember my friend Jacques Pépin – so appalled at airline food—packing crisp baskets of  French snacks for his trips. I wonder if he’s now consulting for one of them?  Oh, how quickly they sell out!)   But, three or four hours after I ate, the stomach rumblings began.   I finished Harry Potter, crying a little, and tried to sleep.  I passed on breakfast.  I was parched.  I got off the plane in Frankfurt and asked at least six people where I was supposed to go (the Frankfurt airport is a mess, but that’s another blog post).  All the while, suppressing the urge to hurl.   Got some Euros from the cash machine.  Bought acqua minerale non gassata (practicing my Italian food words).   Got to the gate.  Ran into the bathroom and threw up a little.  “No,” I’m thinking, “I can’t be doing this.  Not in this spanky-clean German airport bathroom.  What if they find out?  Will they make me leave the country?  ‘Those sloppy Americans!  Can’t even fly properly!’”

I managed to make it onto the flight to Venice.  Survived an hour in the air.  Survived an hour on the Alilaguna boat (a miracle!).  Survived 30 minutes of hauling my luggage across six or seven bridges because Alilaguna decided they weren’t stopping at Zattere that day.  (A Hungarian angel helped me, but that’s another blog post).  Luckily, my room was ready.  I flung my bag on the floor, ran into the bathroom, and exorcised the short ribs. 

The moral of the story?  Never trust chef-branded airline food, even if it’s from a chef whose restaurant is fantastic and who gives you free stuff when you go there.  It’s still airline food. 

Oh, and prosecco cures everything.  (But that’s another blog post.)

Comments

[Suenarita]

Funny! Not your predicament, but I was there with you. Wish I was really there with you.

[Golly]

Isn't great when angels appear in the oddest places? I do find that Prosecco makes me happy at any time of the day.