Despite more than 80 years of commercial aviation, the airline industry has been unsuccessful in erasing the cliché that airplane food is bad. Of course, that doesn’t mean the airlines aren’t trying. Perhaps most notably, they’ve removed in-flight meals from the majority of domestic flights, supplementing instead with snack packs. As a former flight attendant—or glorified waiter—I did my part to delete the stigma by working to create an exceptional flying experience for everyone. Today, having traded in my wings in an increasingly foodless flight environment, I think fondly of those days when my mental state morphed from landed normalcy to airborne, no-holds-barred flight-attending with high-altitude pasta, beef or chicken. It is 11:03 a.m. Aboard the big bird, we conduct a preflight briefing with the flight deck, then safety checks. I inventory barf bags and biohazard toolkits, oxygen tanks, emergency medical kits, defibrillators and air pressure in the evacuation slide pumps. The caterers arrive, risking life and limb dodging planes, luggage carts and fuel trucks to deliver food prepared under cover of heavy jet fumes. Arriving at cabin level, the deliverers peer inside. “Is the door disarmed?” their timid eyes ask. The last thing I want is a false launch of the evacuation slide in the caterers’ faces—it will cost the airline $35,000, a schedule delay and hundreds of angry clients, and it will cost me my job—so I double-check the door. “Disarmed,” I tell them. The catering crew stocks the essentials, but if something’s missing, I’ll have to make do. Passengers arrive, and a merciless land-grab for carry-on storage ensues in the fuselage. Behind the first-class curtain, it’s all about you. Sleek aluminum catering boxes slide smoothly into their compartments. The accoutrements are at the ready: glassware, coffee cups, porcelain plates and metal silverware, fresh flowers, champagne, wine, liquor. Meanwhile, in the rear, the caterers lock into place refrigerated carts that have been battered by use. I pause to help a lady with her bags, when suddenly, the smell of jet fumes disappears, the Tarmac fades and I realize I am too late to double-check with catering about passengers’ special meal requests. The rabbi in J-5 has a kosher tray, the man in H-4 has a Hindu meal, and the man in the turban seated beside him has a Muslim plate. Each is designated by a little yellow card. But for Danielle, the peace-loving vegan back from saving tigers in Sumatra—oops, the caterers supplied a standard-issue Asian vegetarian meal, a distinctly different animal. For people with challenging medical conditions or other special needs, the airline offers low-calorie, low-cholesterol, low-fat, low-protein, low-purine, low-sodium, gluten-free and obnoxiously high-fiber meals, but luckily everyone’s healthy today. Not even a single request for infants, toddlers or kiddies. All systems go. The rabbi in J-5 has a kosher tray, the man in H-4 has a Hindu meal, and the man in the turban seated beside him has a Muslim plate. Each is designated by a little yellow card. But for Danielle, the peace-loving vegan back from saving tigers in Sumatra—oops, the caterers supplied a standard-issue Asian vegetarian meal, a distinctly different animal. For people with challenging medical conditions or other special needs, the airline offers low-calorie, low-cholesterol, low-fat, low-protein, low-purine, low-sodium, gluten-free and obnoxiously high-fiber meals, but luckily everyone’s healthy today. Not even a single request for infants, toddlers or kiddies. All systems go. Back in the oasis of first class, preflight beverages flow as a convection oven heats take-out style aluminum pans. Today’s 12 passengers have two dinner choices: grilled filet of salmon with dill cream sauce and portobello mushroom gnocchi with sautéed spinach or filet mignon au poivre and new potato-blue cheese au gratin with fresh asparagus. As good as they both sound, somebody inevitably won’t get what he wants, and here’s hoping for no food allergies. As for Mr. Seat A-1, with the most airplane miles, he gets spoiled, with the crumbs dabbed from his mouth before anyone else receives a bite. After that, it’s a ruthless process of elimination among the many million-mile flyers. The fools who actually paid full price for their first-class tickets will get their second choice. The folks who used last-minute miles to upgrade from coach get leftovers; so does the fellow who got bumped up due to overbooking. Bon appétit. First-class passengers pick at ramekins of warmed mixed nuts and sip cocktails while waiting for their meals. I walk the aisle with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a bottle of white in the other. Behind the curtain, the attendants pop bottles of champagne and watch raisins dance in the bubbles while discussing what makes famous passengers attractive, or, more often, underwhelming. The plane moves up and down, but I spill nothing. Back in coach, you can barely wet your whistle without kicking in cash for a cocktail. Looking for an appetizer? Try a pack of snack mix. Sorry, peanuts could trigger an allergic reaction and subsequent class-action lawsuit. While you scarf down your snack, your plastic TV-dinner style tray steadily warms up with heating pads in the back galley. Once the food is ready, watch your feet and elbows or the cart roaring down the aisle will fracture them. And finally, “Pasta, beef or chicken?” While I’m rationing trays, the captain advises passengers to buckle up and flight attendants to take their seats. It’s too late to return the meal cart to the back, so I lock it into place in the aisle and place the coffee pots on the floor. As I head back to my jump seat, the plane hits an air pocket and drops 50 feet. The cart goes vertical. Pasta, beef and chicken explode throughout the cabin. I hear a man about to retch. My laugh reflex is squelched only because food service au puke is the last thing I want. I toss the passenger a barf bag. He grabs it, but not in time to prevent full contamination of the food cart. Not even the biohazard tool kit will save my hungry passengers now. But, really, who boards a flight for the food? And how good could anything possibly taste at 500 miles an hour in a pressurized aluminum tube of recirculated air? Next time you fly, ponder this: after the Wright brothers’ wooden biplane completed the world’s first successful flight in Kitty Hawk, N.C., on Dec.17, 1903, the brothers ate lunch—fresh fish, tomatoes, canned goods and a little local produce. Air travel may not be what it used to be, so why not take a page from history and rejoice in your safe landing with a celebratory meal at your destination.