Chicken, Pork or Pasta [Part II]

The lunch service back from New York last week was fine all along. A fairly diverse clientele plus well-honed hard-sell techniques meant choices did not run out prematurely. It was all smooth as silk until I reached the "bottleneck" - just a few rows before the galley - when once again my Chicken and Pork decided to leave me stranded with Vegetarian Pasta.

With Chicken declared sold out and three Pork stolen by my partner from behind, I had one last Pork and a whole bunch of Pasta left in my cart. Then both passengers from the same row decided to have Pork. Fantastic... I got out the last Pork and without much thought passed it first to the outermost passenger. I prayed that a Pork might still be hiding somewhere out of sight in my cart. Nothing but Pasta. I realized I had just dug a grave for myself. Why did I not reserve the Pork for the big, cranky American man who was obviously distressed by the limited leg room in his seat, and instead gave it to the rather amicable-looking Chinese American?

"I'm really sorry sir," I cringed internally for my foolish mistake. "I'm afraid we are already out of Pork or Chicken, would you like to have Pasta instead?" "NO!" He shouted, his aggressive tone sent beads of sweat dancing down my forehead. "I don't want Pasta, I want Pork!" His grayed moustache trembled with fury and his face twisted with rage; he reminded me of a child who whines after his lollipop got snatched by some bully.

"I do apologize sir, but they were very popular today -" "NO! This is terrible service! I won't accept this! I paid the same fare as other passengers, I want Pork and should have it just like anybody else on this flight!" Geez man, relax. If I had strategically given him the Pork, I could have saved myself from this demoralizing outburst. If anything, at least the Chinese passenger appeared more understanding and sympathetic, and wouldn't be as threatening tucked in a window seat than this huge American man who is practically bawling at my face. I glanced at the Pork - the other passenger already opened it - so long for liaising with him to forgo the Pork to this gentleman. "Let me see what I can do." Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I double-checked with my Section Leader, who was equally stressed and wasn't able to offer me any alternatives.

Brace myself for more spit. "Sir, I'm afraid Pasta is all we have left." I detest saying this every single time. Curiously, his face softened. Right when he was about to start again, I added empathetically as I pulled out his tray, "it's a shame..." "NO it's not a shame!" Other passengers turned around to see what the fuss was about. So he's not done yelling yet, go on and blame the unfairness of the world. "This is horrible service!" He went on grumbling, steam shooting out of his ears. "Just give me a glass of red wine!" Think I'm gonna need some myself, too. "And how about your Pasta?" His constant bawling has begun to consume the better of me. "I'm not going to have any Pasta, I don't want anything!" Wow, how I resisted saying, suit yourself. Go on and yell at me as if it was all my fault; but don't take it personal, I reminded myself.

Before I pushed forward with my cart, I kindly offered him a steaming bread roll. I couldn't leave a passenger starving. "I don't want any!" He clenched on his glass of red wine, not wanting to lose face in his stubborn insistence for Pork. Fine then, don't come crying to me when your stomach growls. "Enjoy." I stormed off (internally) with my cart. For christ's sake, do you have to yell like this?

P.S. This passenger was finally pacified by other alternatives.

Chicken, Pork, or Pasta? [Part I]

Nightmares inflight can come in various shapes and forms. The occasional breakdown of the in-seat entertainment program can cause a royal headache as much for bored passengers as does for the crew, but none beats the running out of meal choices when it comes to massive raids of grievances. And that, I have encountered more than a few times.

A typical Economy Class lunch or supper served on an ultra-long haul flight comes with three options: a Chinese-style rice dish, a Western-style potato dish, or a Vegetarian pasta - each loaded in limited numbers by our caterers. Fairly diverse and considerate, eh? But the balance only upholds if that particular flight is carrying a load of passengers with as diverse a palate.

With Asian passengers who cannot live a day without rice, the Chinese option is unquestionably popular. For more versatile Western passengers with big appetites, meat and potatoes sound particularly fulfilling. Rarely do any passengers venture into the Pasta, as if it's the acne-faced loser that nobody befriends with.

So what happens, one asks, if I have a flight-load of Asian passengers? It's a disaster waiting to unfold. Not only is my salesmanship put to the test, my EQ also gets a reality check.

So it goes on my flight to Vancouver, on New Year's Eve 2007.
Promptly taking off after midnight on the 30th, we began our late-night supper service. I rehearsed the menu as I painstakingly dragged the cow of a cart some forty rows uphill: Chicken with Onion Sauce and Rice; Pork with BBQ Sauce and Mashed Potatoes; or Penne with Ratatouille. After testing the waters for the first three rows , I knew what was coming. Half of the first choice in my cart was gone. A quick change in strategy must be enforced.

From experience, I began reversing the order of the menu, putting Pork first and Chicken to the last. Psychology tells me that passengers usually become ADD after hearing the first two choices, as they will be busy deciding between the two. And so I sold a few Pork.

Before halfway through the first cabin of mainly Hong Kong Chinese passengers interspersed with some foreigners, most of my Chicken have already run out the fence. Most Chinese, upon hearing the word "rice," couldn't care less whether it comes with fish, chicken or beef and cut me off before I could even finish my sales pitch. I peered at the cabin ahead. A hungry load of Chinese mouths waiting to be fed. Plan C was direly needed. I began dressing up the Pork with full, detailed description and a smile as sincere as one can get. "Would you like to have Pasta or Pork? It's tender and braised in a tangy BBQ sauce and comes with hot mashed potatoes..." then I'd lower my voice into a whisper and squint my eyes, "it's reeeeally good." Most Westerners would buy that.

For the more indecisive or carefree passengers, sometimes my bias saves the day, albeit against my goodwill. For the petite ones or those who appear to be on a diet, I'd hard sell the Pasta with the feelgood key word: "It's Vegetarian." Some, invariably Westerners, would ask for my recommendation. "Oh, definitely the Pasta." I say that with practically a hand over my heart. I'm sorry lady, either you live or I live. There's nothing else I could say about the Pasta. It was nasty. Bland, limp starch with a plop of indiscernible Ratatouille on the side. Honestly, whoever designed the menu is setting us crew up for a sabotage. Peppers, courgettes, onions and tomatoes is a recipe no Chinese can ingest. We all know the Disney film was a hit, but thanks for making that an option on a flight that is known to be primarily Chinese passengers.

With that said, I made it to the second half of the second cabin alive with a few Pork and plenty of Pasta left in my cart - only to arrive at the much feared news from my Section Leader: All Chicken and Pork declared run out. I looked up, jaw hanging, sweat pouring, legs trembling, at the remaining six rows where not a single Westerner is to be seen. With my last Pork given out, I braced myself for the onslaught of grievances.

Still faking my cool, I cheerfully approached the next row, "Would you like to try our Pasta with Ratatouille?" It was really meant to be a plea, not a question. The passenger stared blankly at me, anticipating the next two choices. "What else have you got?" "I'm really sorry Sir, we have already run out of the Chicken or the Pork, they were very popular... Would you like to have the Pasta?" God have mercy. Some passengers would burst in an outrage of disappointment; others resign to their misfortune. And so I apologize, and empathize, and apologize one by one for every row that comes.

It wasn't only once that I've heard some upset Chinese passengers yelling at a crew. "So you're telling me I have to eat beef?! What now, I don't have a choice?!" In this incident, one mainland Chinese, upon opening his entree and tasting his Pasta, convulsively threw his fork down and bawled to his wife, "Hen nan-chi!!! (It's NASTY!!! in Mandarin)". I, having already turned into a human dartboard, of all things actually sympathized with him this one time.

Severe turbulence

I experienced my worst turbulence ever on my flight to New York. I was just about to step out of the lavatory at the back when the aircraft gave a violent stroke, jutting me back and forth like a bowling pin. The seatbelt sign instantly illuminated. "Fasten your seatbelts please!" I straddled up the aisle struggling for balance, scanning each passenger's lap while an airborne earthquake sent startled passengers scrambling back to their seats in a frenzy. Before I could make it halfway through the cabin, our Captain - not the Inflight Service Manager - made an announcement, indicating the gravity of the situation. "ALL CABIN CREW PLEASE BE SEATED."

Rarely are cabin crew requested to buckle up during turbulence as we place our safety on the line securing the cabin and continuing our work. In this case, it is obvious that this is not just a refreshing jolt. Upon hearing the announcement, I scurried back to my station for life. Nobody wants to relive the horror of that one doomed crew of another airline who once hit the ceiling and became paralyzed as she fell spine-first onto an armrest upon a sudden, severe dip. Finding a cart parked in front of my seat, I unbraked it and swung it into the galley then buckled myself up.

With my seat facing the passengers, I got a good look of the various expressions. The air was gushing violently outside my door as the aircraft rapidly propelled forward in an endless wind tunnel. Different passengers were doing different things as the noise grew and the bumps steadily severe. Some were concentrating hard on their movies, brows furrowed; others cuddled up in their seats catching up on sleep, while yet others were having a great time joking and laughing. Well, that's better than having couples in front of me drawing a cross and praying hand in hand as if we are all going to die (talk about making me panic) - or staring at me for reassurance as if my face determines whether we will live or crash.

Right at this moment a passenger came out of the loo from the back. What the...?! My fellow crew there frantically asked him to secure himself, and seeing that there was no way he could make it back to his seat, he volunteered to lock himself back inside and sit on the toilet.

Then, a Chinese man from the first row decided to get up and run to the toilet, located twenty rows down. Ugh, hello? Astonishingly daring and senseless. Only that he changed his mind before he even reached the fourth row. He must have gotten a taste of what it's like to patrol a cabin during turbulence. The poor man practically crawled back to his seat on all fours.

Until our aircraft gave a sudden dip. Several passengers screamed.

Various thoughts crossed my mind. Damn those air crash movies. I could literally feel the aircraft hurtling. I looked at my watch. It was 1:20pm. I thought about my mother, in whom I have faith will look after me from the skies beyond. I consoled myself that this would actually be the only time I get to openly sit outside of my designated rest period during the fifteen-hour flight. Then my stomach groaned. I haven't even had a bite since I got up at 5:30 this morning to get to work.

By now, passengers grew increasingly tense. Some scrambled for their air sickness bag. My heartbeat quickened. And damn it, I am sitting all by myself. The crew across the aisle was sitting somewhere else. Then the aircraft suddenly plunged. Passengers shrieked in terror as we all felt the Drop Zone effect.

Finally, the turbulence levelled off after 45 minutes. Work resumed.

The inflight short-term memory challenge: a cause or prevention for early Alzheimer's?

Ever had the experience where you ask a cabin crew for a drink, and a moment later she wanders up and down the aisle with your drink unable to locate you in your seat? You'd wonder, how could she possibly forget who ordered the drink only a minute ago? Now think twice...

This occurred on a recent flight and on almost every flight, only with slight permutations. With an important task in mind, I must hurry to the galley from Door 3, a distance covering roughly twenty rows of seats that typically requires no more than 15 seconds. "Typical" here should be redefined, because someone's bound to stop you on your way.

"'S'cuse me, can I have a blanket and a pillow?" A passenger would halt you no sooner than you make your mark, get set, ready and go. "Certainly, I will bring you one in a minute." I take a glance at her seat number and make a mental note: 31 A, a pale-faced lady with funny hair - a blanket and a pillow.

Noticing a cabin crew approaching, a passenger at 35 D anxiously reaches out his hand and asks for a glass of tomato juice like there is no tomorrow.

31 A, blanket and pillow; 35 D, middle-aged man, a TJ. With ice. Yuck. I can handle that. "Sure, I will be right back."

I run the two requests over and over in my mind with relative ease as I pick up my speed towards the galley. Then I spot two heads peering out at me from afar. I accelerate and keep my eyes forward, anticipating only the inevitable.

"Uh... my headsets don't seem to work, can you bring me another one?" One complains.

By now, I begin to feel a strain on my short term memory. I glance at the galley - it's only ten feet away. Shall I give in and drop all these orders down on paper, or take a gamble that I'd reach the galley in no time with just three orders? When it doesn't involve safety, risks somehow always seem to be more appealing.

Alright. 42 aisle seat, replace his headset; 31 window seat, a blanket... and pillow; and 35... or was it 36? a TJ... I can still make it. By now, the seat numbers seem to blur with the faces that my brain cognitively associates with each request. Go, go, I'm almost there. I aim for my finishing line as my mind frantically organizes and prioritizes my tasks. Where are the extra headsets anyway? And do we have anymore...

"S'cuse me, I want a coffee," A stuck-up mother stops me in mid-thought. For Pete's sake, please refrain from asking for coffee unless we are serving it. It's one of the most labor-intensive beverages. Then she slowly turns to her even more stuck-up brat of a daughter, "how about you? Do you want apple juice? Or orange juice?" "And an apple juice for my daughter," she concludes. Till here, I would have already dumped all my attempts to remember seat numbers. My original task has long been forgone.

A few moments later, out in the cabin there I am, a blanket and pillow tucked under my arm, a tray in hand with a revolting glass of iced tomato juice, coffee and apple juice. Something seems missing, but I'd rather not be grouched at by the pale-faced lady who now must be distressed by the long wait for her blanket. Passengers never realize that they are one among hundreds that we serve, and expect their orders to be fulfilled instantaneously.

With several tasks completed on my mental checklist, I wander the aisle with the lonely tomato juice, hoping that the now unidentifiable middle-aged man would graciously identify his drink. Sometimes these passengers never speak up, or have their eyes closed, and whatever they ordered would pace around the aisle and eventually go back to the galley without an owner.

*************

Recently, I have noticed myself becoming increasingly forgetful. I separate a pair of socks, sit and put on one, then cannot remember where the other one is. I was relieved to hear from my colleagues that I'm not the only one apparently suffering from, uh, short-term dementia outside of work.

At the beginning, I thought such daily drills of short-term memory could challenge and possibly even strengthen my memory as I age. However, as I catch myself blanking out, I start to fear that the over-consumption of RAM inflight will rather lead to an onset of early Alzheimer's.

The man who steals... without shame!

Just yesterday on my way back from Seoul, South Korea, I discovered yet an even more innovative way of stealing - conspicuous stealing!

As I collected the trays from a middle-aged Korean couple, I found the teacups and salad bowls missing. Fine, they were nice and polite and I wasn't inclined to make a fuss out of this. During the remaining flying hours, I patrolled the cabin every now and then answering call lights and collecting any used cups or rubbish. Then I passed by this couple and saw the misplaced plastic ware sitting quietly and stacked on the man's tray table. As a passenger, I have always liked my space to be cleared as soon and as much as possible to maximize comfort. So I routinely offered to remove them.

"Would you like me to collect those, sir?"
"No thanks," the man answered with a smile that is almost warming in the chilly cabin, "we're going to take them home."

Alright, is there any kind of model answer to this type of situation? "Certainly, go ahead?" "Would you also like to take a look of our duty free selections?" Instead, I decided to continue patrolling.