Menu cards and other works of fiction at 35,000 feet

Air travel is one of those modern experiences that sits delicately between aspiration and mild disappointment. Somewhere between the optimism of the boarding gate and the philosophical resignation of the baggage carousel lies a curious little theatre called in-flight dining. Tuesday, I was flying into Kolkata when a small miracle occurred. The airline’s upgrade algorithm, normally as warm and generous as an income tax notice, decided that I was worthy of an upgrade that’d make me feel like a Maharaja.

Upgrades have a strange psychological effect. Your posture improves, your tone becomes calmer, your boarding pass suddenly feels less like a ticket and more like a visiting card to a minor princely state.

And then the ritual begins. The friendly air hostess hands you a menu card.

Now, a menu card on an aircraft is a fascinating cultural document. It suggests civilisation, implies abundance and, above all, it quietly tells you that you are not merely travelling across India but dining elegantly above it.

The menu handed to me had all the signs of a thriving culinary democracy.

There was Teriyaki Chicken with edamame sesame rice. There was Chicken Farcha with bhuna pyaz pulao and masala dal. There were also vegetarian adventures involving methi matar, turmeric rice and something called tofu in red Thai curry.

At that moment, the aircraft cabin felt less like a flight and more like a diplomatic summit between Japan, Thailand and a Parsi kitchen in Mumbai. The stewardess arrived with the polite seriousness of a maître d’.

“What would you prefer, sir?”

I looked at the menu with the concentration of a man pretending to understand food that contains more adjectives than ingredients.

“The teriyaki chicken.”

A pause followed.

“Sir… that option is not available.”

“Oh.”

“We have the Chicken Farcha.”

Which is how, at 35,000 feet, I discovered something called Chicken Farcha. Now I must confess I had no prior relationship with this dish. I have now learnt it is a classic Parsi preparation – crispy fried chicken with spices, though the version that arrived on my tray appeared to have taken a more philosophical route and arrived looking very much like chicken nuggets contemplating their identity.

This is when one realises that airline menu cards are not really menus. They are aspirational literature. They describe a world that may exist somewhere, perhaps in the catering department’s PowerPoint presentation, but not necessarily inside the aircraft.

What the passenger actually experiences is not choice. It is curated inevitability. And suddenly I felt a wave of nostalgia for that old aviation system, known affectionately as “cattle class”.

The rules there were refreshingly simple.

The air hostess arrived with a trolley and the confidence of someone who knew exactly how the universe worked.

“Veg or non-veg?”

There was no menu, no culinary storytelling, no teriyaki diplomacy with edamame. You received a tray. You ate the tray. The aircraft continued its journey. It was honest.

Which brings us to that magnificent blue budget airline that has quietly perfected the philosophy of aviation minimalism. Their offering is beautifully transparent. They give you cookies. Or cashews.

Unless, of course, you have pre-booked a sandwich, which appears to have been assembled by someone who has recently lost faith in bread. But at least there is no illusion.

Much of modern consumption is not about utility but about display. The performance of abundance often matters more than abundance itself.

Airline menus are the airborne version of that idea. They are not about food. They are about the comforting illusion that somewhere above Raipur you have the dining privileges of a five-star hotel.

Until the steward returns and gently says the sentence that restores philosophical clarity.

“Sir, only this option is available.”

And suddenly everything becomes simple again. You eat the Chicken Farcha – whatever that may be. You look out of the window. And you realise that the true philosopher of Indian aviation is not the Maharaja with his menu cards.

It is the budget airline with the cashews. Because it understands a timeless truth about travel. In the sky, as in life, the fewer the illusions, the easier the digestion.

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