When I saw that I had been upgraded to first class I was certain that there had been a mistake: Like all frequent flyers I long to join that elite club of overweight, middle-aged men who populate the first class cabin. But those rarified seats always go to people who fly far more frequently than I.
As I drove to the airport I remembered the first time I flew first class, back in 1986 when I was interviewing with a company based in California. The prospective company sent me a round trip ticket on Pan Am from Miami to San Francisco but the flight was overbooked and I got bumped. The pleasant ticket agent seemed legitimately sorry and, to make amends, she upgraded me to first class on the next flight.
“But you need to wear a suit,” she said helpfully. “Do you have one? And a tie?” In 1986 people did not fly first class in flip flops.
I remember the flight because I was surrounded by handsome, well-dressed business men and their beautiful mistresses. There were a couple of models and a buxom starlet. Legendary Congressman Claude Pepper, who was neither beautiful nor well-dressed, was on the flight and the stewardesses were all young and slim and gorgeous.
For dinner I had a choice of three hot entrees which were served from a cart and my dinner tray had fresh flowers on it. Beyond that, I don’t remember much more about the flight because I was drinking scotch on the rocks, not because I liked Scotch but because I thought it was a sophisticated, first-classy thing to drink, and the stewardess kept refilling my drink all the way to San Francisco. I remember that the couple behind me was snorting coke off their tray table and that the man next to me ate a banana with a knife and fork. I didn’t get the job and I flew back, in disgrace, in steerage.
Having that lofty memory in mind did not prepare me for first class circa 2016. I was wearing jeans and flip-flops and was definitely overdressed in the first class cabin. The unsmiling flight attendant, who greeted me with the warmth of a matron at a woman’s prison, asked me if I wanted something to drink.
“Diet Coke,” I said politely. A moment later she handed me a Coke.
I caught her eye. “I asked for a Diet Coke,” I said.
“No you didn’t,” she said. I opened my mouth to protest but she grabbed the Coke out of my hand and walked into the galley. “Two-A doesn’t remember what he ordered,” I heard her say. “You deal with him.”
The other flight attendant was much nicer and way younger, probably in her early 70’s. When we were in flight she came to my seat and asked if I wanted lunch. “We’ve hired a new executive chef to upgrade our menu,” she told me, “also a sommelier!”
That sounded promising. “You have a choice of a ham sandwich with chips or a chicken salad on iceberg lettuce,” she said.
If those were the upgraded options the executive chef was clearly an underachiever. I couldn’t help myself: “What kind of wine are you serving?” I asked.
“Red or white,” she said.
The sandwich was stale, and there was not much meat in it, but the potato chips were fresh and I got the whole can of Diet Coke. For dessert, everyone in the cabin got a banana. And not one person ate it with a knife and fork.
We’ve come a long way since 1986.