CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IN-FLIGHT MEALS

Flight attendants moved down the aisle in the cabin, their carts rattling softly over the carpet. The scent of reheated food wafted from the neatly arranged trays, vaguely savory, but undercut by the artificial tang of packaged condiments.

Maggie stretched in her seat, eyeing the approaching cart with mild suspicion. “Alright, let’s see what fresh disappointment they’re serving today.”

Contessa turned to her. “The meal is predetermined?”

“Yeah, usually a choice between chicken or pasta. Sometimes fish, if they’re feeling cruel.”

Contessa frowned. “The options are limited.”

“Welcome to economy.” Maggie shrugged. “Not exactly fine dining up here.”

The flight attendant stopped at their row, offering a polite smile. “Chicken or pasta?”

Contessa examined the trays. The chicken was coated in a thick, glossy sauce, its color slightly too uniform to be natural. The pasta was smothered in cheese that had congealed at the edges.

Neither option inspired confidence.

“The nutritional value is suboptimal,” she noted.

Maggie sighed. “Just pick one.”

Contessa hesitated, then pointed to the pasta. The tray was placed before her, plastic utensils resting beside it. She peeled back the cover. A dense bread roll, a small cup of gelatinous dessert, and a butter packet completed the meal.

She picked up the plastic fork and attempted to spear the pasta. It resisted. She applied more force. The fork bent.

Maggie, already eating, grinned. “Yeah, that happens.”

Contessa took a cautious bite. The texture was… inconsistent. The sauce was somehow too salty and too bland at the same time. She chewed, swallowed, and set the fork down.

“This is objectively poor food.”

Maggie laughed. “It’s not about the food. It’s about lowering your standards until it’s just fuel.”

Contessa glanced around. Other passengers ate without complaint, mechanically forking mouthfuls of rubbery chicken and overcooked pasta as if the quality was irrelevant. Perhaps, to them, it was. A routine part of the journey. An expectation, not an experience.

She took another bite. It was no better the second time.

Maggie smirked. “Bet you wish you picked the chicken.”

Contessa regarded her plate, then Maggie’s. “Neither was the correct choice.”

Maggie nearly choked on her roll, laughing. “You’re learning.”