In defense of airline food: Airplane cuisine is a triumph of cooking, science, and logistics.

Why I Love Airline Food

Why I Love Airline Food

Stories from Roads & Kingdoms
Sept. 13 2013 7:27 AM

The Fare up There

Why I love airline food. (No really, I do.)

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But up in the air, the challenges of serving hot, visually-appealing, texturally-diverse meals pile up quickly. Does the chicken stuffed with dried apricots look right in that serving vessel? Can that appetizing garnish fit into the 2-inch space in the plane’s convection oven? Is it too expensive to pay a cook to cut those cherry tomatoes in half so they don’t roll around during flight? For an airline serving more than 50,000 meals each day out of their Singapore hub alone, the tiny details matter.

Dressed in a mix of chefs’ coats and lab coats, armed with thick binders and clipboards, the Singapore Airlines group tasted and tweaked their way through nearly 200 first, business, and economy class dishes

Photo courtesy of Gregory Dicum

“The customer has every right to expect a good meal,” says Hermann Freidanck, Executive Chef for Singapore Airlines. “It’s our job to fulfill that, but it can be a challenge. A three-step process on the ground will become a 10-step process inflight.”

To illustrate the difficulties airline caterers face, Freidanck’s executive sous chef Edmund Lee points to an experiment with one of California’s most iconic foods: the In-N-Out cheeseburger. “I’ve been asking my colleagues in L.A. to see if we can get In-N-Out on board. It’s more challenging than you think. The lettuce gets wilted, the cheese is off, the bun would be dry and hard. And that’s just a burger.”


All of this is to say nothing of the most important challenge of all: taste. As the jokes have accumulated over the years, airlines have worked to change the perception of in-flight cuisine. Singapore spent $1 million to build a kitchen that simulates the low-pressure environment found at cruising altitude, a work zone where chefs can conduct more accurate taste tests. Delta turned over the corporate kitchen to big-name chefs like Michelle Bernstein and Michael Chiarello to up their culinary game. And some airlines have even commissioned outside research to help better understand the challenges they face feeding people five miles up in the sky.

In 2010, Lufthansa worked with the Fraunhofer Institute for Building Physics IBP to answer a variety of questions concerning inflight dining, among them, why passengers were ordering tomato juice onboard at an exaggerated clip. Fraunhofer’s scientists found that perceptions of saltiness and sweetness drop by as much as 30 percent onboard, due largely to the fact that our odor receptors (taste being largely a function of smell) are compromised in the bone-dry environment of an airplane cabin. This might make the salty-sweet punch of tomato juice more attractive to people who wouldn’t touch the stuff on the ground, but the impact on more subtle foods like seafood, chicken, and pasta can be devastating.

But it turns out it’s not just that moisture-sapping pressurized cabins that compromise taste. Glaring lights and the drone of the engine can also impact our perception of flavor.  “In the unfamiliar environment of the aircraft cabin, people are more exposed to basic stimuli and less likely to notice details,” says Dr. Florian Mayer, one of the scientists behind Fraunhofer’s research. “This pushes up stimulus thresholds, with the result that a stronger stimulus is required to trigger a response.”

Cost-cutting pencil heads, palate-crushing cabin pressure, flavor-distracting engines: When you take all of these factors into account, the fact that we are served even mediocre meals constitutes a minor miracle in kitchen science. It’s not despite these challenges that I love airline food, but because of them.

When it comes to the little pleasures of life, environment, and circumstance are everything, which is why a cold can of Heineken and a Jennifer Aniston–Hugh Grant flick go down so easy at high altitudes—not because the beer is better or the movie is less saccharine, but because these tiny touches of real life distract us from the bizarre truth that we’re zipping across the sky in the belly of a metal bird. If we extend that generosity of judgment to average beers and lame romantic comedies, why don’t we do the same for that semi-mysterious entree?

But my affinity for airline cuisine is not merely an appreciation of the dark arts it takes to create it. Over the years of nonstop air travel, I’ve developed a few strategies that help me avoid the types of disappointment infrequent flyers experience when they plunge head first into an inflight meal. First, always opt for the sauciest entrée: braises, stews, and curries get better over time, whereas pieces of lightly-dressed protein are almost uniformly dry and bland. (Be sure to choose tomato-based sauces over cream-based ones, which taste tame and one-dimensional at high altitude.) Make immediate use of those salt and pepper packets; though airline caterers salt their food more heavily, they still err on the side of restraint. And if you drink wine, make sure it’s the most powerful grape on hand. Subtleties are lost above the clouds.

As a general preemptive measure, fly Asian airlines as often as possible. “The coach service in Asian and Middle Eastern airlines is comparable to the business-class service you get from American carriers,” says William McGee. The Singapore girls will soak you in fruity Singapore Slings, All Nippon offers respectable soba and Japanese-style fried chicken to their coach passengers, and Korean Airlines boasts their own farm, which provides the building blocks for their legendary bibimbap.

And one last thing: Regardless of where you’re flying and whom you’re flying with, always take the chicken over the pasta. All that heating and reheating leaves the pile of noodles limp and lifeless, which is inexcusable at any altitude.

Additional reporting by Gregory Dicum

Matt Goulding is co-founder of Roads & Kingdoms. You can follow him on Twitter at @mdgoulding.