I knew the airplane breakfast was going to be an issue for the older gentleman sitting next to me in the aisle seat. He was French (“like FRENCH FRENCH” which is how we sometimes describe someone from France but not from Quebec). He and I didn’t exchange a single word during the entire flight but I felt like I knew him a tiny bit. His choice of in-flight entertainment consisted entirely of old Charlie Chaplin films and jazz. He listened to music with his eyes closed and I never knew if he was asleep or just listening very deeply.
When I saw the cheery flight attendant handing out breakfast I watched to see what my neighbour would do. He arrived at our row, tray in hand and a friendly and eager-to-please expression on his face. The tray in question contained what I can only describe as a gas-station muffin, a rectangle of cheese, fruity imitation yogurt (I refer to it as imitation yogurt because it’s a thin shadow of what real yogurt is really like), orange juice, and water. There may have been another item in there, but that’s what I recall.
In essence, it was the antithesis of a French breakfast.
I watched with bated breath. Would my neighbour accept this awful interpretation of the first meal of the day? If he did, which of these items would he eat?
The flight attended looked at him expectantly. “Monsieur?”
My neighbour raised his right hand in one swift and decisive motion. I heard only one word: “Non.”
The flight attendant leaned in. Hushed words were exchanged, in French, so I don’t know what was said. He reached back to his cart, grasped a silver urn, and poured my neighbour a coffee. Black s’il vous plait. And that was that.
