The aircraft itself was not promising. It served two purposes: cattle lift and human transport, alternating. For humans, they slotted in seats and hung air fresheners around the cabin. The dominant scent was not human. And I had no high expectations for any aspect of the flight, let alone for a gourmet meal. But soon after takeoff, a burly steward came out of the galley, his arms lined up and down with baskets. In each basket there was a perfect picnic under a cloth—a hunk of local salami, a hunk of rough cheese, a half loaf of dark brown bread, a small bottle of Bulgarian red, and a perfect peach.

What a feast and how easy—and inexpensive—to provide. Why do Americans in particular put up with faux-chicken-or-pasta? Is this an attempt to be lowest-common-denominator, to push no "I don't eat this" buttons?

Our airplanes, especially American ones, are under self-imposed restraints of all kinds. Young mothers must put their bottled breast milk through irradiating screening or toss it out. We who bring our own food on board, as we must or pay for what the airlines calls food, are subject to all kinds of resistances—from having to throw out a PB & J because there might be a peanut-intolerant child on board to being told that the food we have brought (a redolent curry or a garlic-tomato-sauced pasta dish) is offending other passengers.

I wouldn't mind, really, being told ahead of time that I should avoid bringing certain things on board. I can come up with excellent and inoffensive dishes that no one would sniff at and that I would find a treat. Once I made a superlative smoked whitefish/dill cream cheese sandwich; another time I called my favorite sushi-ya and had them make up a tray for me. I haven't done what Calvin Trillin has done, though it tempts me: He famously brought boxes from his favorite BBQ place in Missouri for a feast on board, up to his elbows in sauce and ribs. I do bring bags of fruit and maybe some chocolate digestive biscuits for a short haul.

Our airlines CAN serve fine-dining-style food—in first class. But it is time to reconceptualize eating, and luxury, at 36,000 feet. The Bulgarians had it right. No prep time, no heating, hardly any service items. Some longtime travelers know some tricks: Order Asian vegetarian if there is an option on trans-Atlantic flights. The food, made in smaller quantities and from fresh ingredients, can be excellent.

Airline competition is high: They do want our business. It would be such a coup to make food good enough to advertise: Fly us and eat well. Seasonal offerings, festive treats, but above all, simple and delicious. I am convinced the way to our credit cards is through our stomachs. Unfasten your seat belt.

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