On the one side, Delta presents a beautifully Pollyanna-like quality where their world is an outcrop of optimistic thoughts, happy people, delectable fare and splendid comfort. Domestically, this is known as First Class, while internationally it is referred to as Business Class.
Then there is the other, darker side to Delta. The world of Economy and Coach Class. Uggh. Heaven forbid and bless the unfortunate souls who are relegated to this loathsome level for the sheen of Delta’s veneer is quickly lost as soon as the flight attendants cross the threshold from the seemingly gilded curtains that separate the premium seats from those of the peon section.
I had the pleasure/displeasure of being heralded on high and then categorically ignored within the space of five days on a recent roundtrip flight from New York’s JFK Airport to Manchester, England and back again. Let me tell you, the two flights couldn’t have been more different.
Wednesday Evening, June 29, 2011
My husband and I were originally booked in “Premium Economy” seats. I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant but I suspected it had something to do with Delta throwing two bags of pretzels at us instead of one. My husband—whom I have nicknamed “The Flying Dutchman” because he travels constantly for business and is, of course, Dutch—is a Diamond Elite Million Miler member with Delta. Suspiciously, this could have had something to do with us being upgraded at the very last minute from Premium Economy to Business Class.
Yayyy. I mean, big yayyy. When Delta does well, they do really well. We had pleasant flight attendants. We had massive leg room; we had free flowing wine; we had seats that reclined to an extremely comfortable sleeping position. And, of course, there was the food. With real silverware, for heavens sake.
The first course consisted of a crab salad appetizer with avocado and cantaloupe. Damned if that wasn’t one of the best concoctions I’ve had in a long while. And since my husband doesn’t partake in shellfish, my portion was times two! Next was a deliciously balanced cream of garden greens soup that was sufficiently thick without being pasty. A mixed green salad with jicama, yellow peppers almonds and roma tomatoes rounded out the second course.
The main course selections consisted of either filet of beef, salmon francaise or lasagna pasta bites, of which I chose the latter. Lightly seasoned with spinach and radicchio in gorgonzola sauce topped with pine nuts, it was worthy to be placed on any fine dining establishment’s menu.
And the 2010 Chakana Yaguarete Collection Torrontes wine from Salta, Argentina was, in a word, superb.
The pursers, as the flight attendants described themselves, were immaculately dressed, anticipated our every need before we even knew what we wanted and made themselves virtually indispensible. It was lovely.
And then there was the return flight.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sadly, there was no upgrade to Business Class. Our original seats in Premium Economy awaited us. Surprisingly, there was no extra bag of pretzels. There was, however, lots of extra leg room, which was a delightful bonus. However, everything else, well, basically sucked.
The flight attendants—no pursers here, folks—rolled their little meal cart down the aisle, knocking into stray elbows and feet with reckless abandon without a care in the world. The sour looks on their faces matched their equally sour moods. They were tending to the cattle and they were not happy about it.
The mesh curtain that separated Business Class from the rest of us did little to hide the transformation that routinely took place in one flight attendant. Behind the curtain, she was all teeth, smiling and bowing to her charges as if they were the kings and queens of the plane. Once she emerged through the curtain, the smile was wiped clean from her face, her eyes rolled back in her head and she blew the stray strands of hair from her big forehead as if to say “Oh damn . . . here we go again!” Oh damn, indeed.
Lunch was a real treat.
“You want chicken or pasta?”
I opted for the chicken. Shame on me. Rubber is not my favorite flavor. And the risotto that accompanied the dead poultry was a mystery unto itself. The best part of the meal was the bread and butter. And, no, I have never been to prison, so why that combo appealed to me is also a mystery.
I reasoned that if I couldn't indulge in a decent meal, then at least I could get a little buzz on with a glass of wine or two (or six). Wellllll, I don't know whose feet had been stomping on those grapes and then they had the audacity to strain it all and put it in that little box—yup, box—but Delta should be slapped six ways to Sunday for that little stunt. I wanted a glass of chardonnay, but what they gave me was so incredibly awful that a wino would be hard-pressed to finish it.
When I heard the big-forehead flight attendant lean over the cart and whisper to her cohert, "Don't fill the cups all the way because we don't have enough soda," and then she proceeded to fill each cup to the rim with ice cubes and about a teaspoon of soda, I was through.
That was it. I gave up.
Misery became my companion on the flight. My husband tried to coax me into watching a movie, but I was too depressed. When I don’t have a decent meal, it affects my entire psyche. I slept. And then I slept some more. When I awoke, it was time for our pre-landing snack. Oh goodie.
This little treasure that they decided to grace us with was simply ridiculous. They called it a “Posh Wrap” and it consisted of Mediterranean vegetables and feta cheese. Really folks, it was a pitiful knockoff of a Hot Pocket with undercooked dough and mushy veggies. There was absolutely, positively, beyond the shadow of a doubt nothing posh about it. Who did these yahoos think they were fooling?!?
Why such disparity between First/Business Class and Economy/Coach/Peon Class? The hell if I know. I just wish Delta, and all of the other airlines that fly the friendly skies, would get a clue. Passengers pay a helluva lot of money for these flights. The least we could expect is a decent meal and a pleasant attitude. Economy doesn’t equate to low-class.
[Stepping down off of my gilded soap box and shoving it under the desk . . . for now]
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