Rose colored forcemeat.

While in France, when not seeing naked ladies dance I saw remarkable pictures of inlaid pâté and heard stories of even more remarkable ones. To wit, a clock themed meatloaf whose slice face showed the hands of a clock which moved after each slice. Yeah, I know, right?!. Ever desperate to break through the forcemeat elite, a modest “rosace” (best translated as rose-petal shape) was devised. Not easy. With the help of a protractor, T-square, computer, nudity and laser, a mold was fabricated to hold the colored liver farce-fine wrapped in painstakingly hand sliced fatback frozen into shape. Cubic Zaffronia (turmeric) and paprika fortified the colors. An erudite eagle-eyed friend indicated the uncanny resemblance to nerdy pie pieces of a Trivial Pursuit  game. Hmmm, pie.

History hat trick

Nothing worthy of the Grand Prix de France, but a respectable inaugural effort.  Whole bunch of stuff in there.  Heart, tongue, liver, fatback, and the petals wrapped in a liver forcemeat. In other news, many of these documented fabrications can be sampled and purchased at Society Fair in Alexandria, VA where I tend the butcher’s counter in the evenings and all day on weekends. Cooked charcuterie and proteins (dry aged when applicable) cut to order. Properly trussed poultry, barded roasts, French butcher’s cuts and boneless lamb centerpieces. Randall Lineback beef, boneless stuffed Beaver Creek Quail, pâté en croûte, saucisson à l’ail, pork liver pâté and such and such.

Tis the season for forgotten fruit cousins of apples and pears which are virtually inedible raw but when placed in a sock is a practical alternative to more useful soap when applied to bludgeoning a dopey donut craving liability. Afterwards, they can be fed to the elderly for absolute hilarity.

Envince the quince

As per the usual, the quince were prepared by carving them into segments and slowly braising in a 3/1 water/sugar syrup jazzed up with rosemary, clove, lust and pride. As they cook, the quince turn pink and then ruby red as a result of the tannins which help to create anthocyanin pigments and a consequence of all your past profanity. And lies.

Eden’s forbidden meatloaf

The organic pork shoulder, heart, tongue and liver came from a conscientiously raised Berkshire pig which called High View Farm in Berryville, Virginia home. The heart was cured and confit in lard whereas the tongue was brined and simmered. A farce fine was made with the liver and thrice ground pork. After being puréed smooth a diced garnish of tongue, heart, quince, fatback and loin was mixed to the farce along with spices, salt, #1 and such. Naturally, the pork was marinated in booze, olive oil and aromatics for a week prior to processing.

Convincing quincing

A new pastry recipe was developed based on some research from the World Pâté Croûte Championship (this fall’s stage took place at Gilles Verot who honorably placed second). Seeking a krustyier though austere pastry  lard represents 70% of the fat while some of the flour percentage is replaced by cornstarch which helps to make a smoother dough.

conglomermeat

To highlight and represent the overlooked fruit encased within, quince and leaves were delicately carved then adorned on the roof much like your average consumer Joe-Christmas puts jingly crap all over his roof for the holidays.  After a deep rubdown of egg wash the thing was baked, left to cool slightly and delightfully filled with port aspic -no leaks.

Savory fresco.

There were few if any faults in this edition. The pastry was firm, savory and a pleasure to eat, though it could have cooked slightly more on the side juxtaposing the forcemeat. The forcemeat was complex, though tender and well seasoned. Spice and booze from the marinade was noticeable and the variety of textures/flavors offered by the heart, tongue, ham, fatback and quince were nothing short of satisfying. Future editions might include an inlay of quince paste.

Part III.  Turkey Delivery

Dinner seen through rosy early 20th century glasses.

Happy New Year, dearest faithful and hopelessly sexually repressed readers. Forgive the brevity, but commuting has sapped free time. Consider relieving your New Year’s Eve shame with this delightful –albeit tardy- ultimate TG2011 installment as you hopelessly milk the clock –managers or worker bees alike.

Hell, its been almost 6 weeks and at this point flexing any turkeyday muscles is just a formality.  Still, if a pair of contraceptive diaphragms remain in your desk drawer and weren’t taken to your holiday party, put them in over your glasses because you are about to get fucked in the eyes.

A delectable variety of seasonally appropriate garden accoutrements preceded the roast of honor.

Baby cabbages, or whatever. From Belgium with flavor.

Brussels sprouts, savory and tart.  Blanched in water seasoned to theWestern Atlantic’s liking then agitated with red onions cooked in plenty of lard and made vibrant with lemon juice.

Holla-flower. #gratiné

Heirloom cauliflower à la Polonaise.  Yellow, purple, and romanesco.  A béchamel supplemented with the stalks.  Eggs barely boiled, split and nestled within the brassica valleys.  A generous dusting of lemon zest, garlic and bread crumbs toasted in poultry fat –butter not readily available from a turkey no matter how hard you milk it.  Given the tanning salon treatment  in an oven until deliciously crunchy.  Verdant, tender, firm, rich, crisp, saucy, hearty.

Roast cleavage.

And then there was the heritage Virginia bird.  Brined in a solution of salt and maple syrup.  Left to dry overnight then roasted over a bedding of vegetable aromatics and sliced lemon to the goldest of golden.

Thigh-roller.

As for the leggy appendages, ballotines, naturally.  Puréed, seasoned garnish with thigh meat, fatback, cranberries, fatback and expertly rolled up, as one would an XXXL reefer and roasted with fresh cranberries and chestnuts.  Superb.

Tastes charming as well.

No bird can go to the ball without a proper dressing, or in this case, saupiquet –a gravy made from reduced turkey stock and thickened with the seared liver.  Then some confit gizzard chopped up in there.

I am the gizzard king.

Pan Coudoun.Languedocfavorite. Candied quince baked in whole wheat bread.  Chewy crumb, aromatic crust, sweet filling.

Nature’s candy in a gluten wrapper.

Frangipane pagentry.

 Pumpkin and ricotta frangipane tart.  Courtesy a friend in the industry.  To top it; honey-cream cheese iced cream.  Wonderfully flaky crust.  Fragrant frangipane, sweet pumpkin and just a little bit of sour from the ricotta.  A fitting closure washed down with Pachernc.

Gilded arches.

An exceptional evening whose fare was only made as enjoyable as the company.

Thank you guests.

Part II.  Super Soup

A complete, coastal package.

Gloucester chowder  and acorn squash goldfish.  No big deal.  A veritable Tetris of flavors and juices Just had to make sure the guests remembered to wear their dental dams as they were about to get fucked in the mouth .  The likes of which inspires pop-culture folklore.

Healthy dinner eco-system

Navy beans cooked with bacon, garlic and bay leaf.  Bacon rendered, then celery and red onion cooked in the fat, finished with lemon segments.  Littleneck clams then mussels cooked with white wine, toasted garlic, the skin from thick-cut bacon and parsley.  Legitimate salted cod (not pollock) simmered with lemon zest and shrimp then poached with the salt cod liquid and ground chili.  After reserving some cooked beans for the garnish, the remaining were puréed with 75% of the weight in bean, clam, mussel and salt cod/shrimp juice.

Selfless shells & fish

A bowl of shrimp, clams, mussels, salted cod, navy beans, leek and celery leaf ready to welcome in open arms a hot ladle of chowder freckled with bacon, celery, onion, beans, sage and lemon zest.   Rich, savory, smooth, pleasant saltiness and acid notes from the salt cod, lemon and white wine, subtle smoke and crunch on behalf of bacon, creamy beans and fragrant greenery courtesy the blanched leeks.

Going for gold. Soup sopper.

Accompanying the decidedly chauvinist (in a good way) chowder were, appropriately enough, cornbread-acorn squash-goldfish hybrids, essential for sopping up the palpable bean porridge.  Yep.  Your hypothalamus probably just got a confused erection or crapped. Or both. You’re welcome.  Acorn squash roasted with olive oil, salt and a few select wintry spices after which the pulp was incorporated into a soignée cornbread recipe and baked in a delightful fish-shaped cornbread mold found at Happy’s flea market  in Roanoke for price of 3 cans of local suds.

Salt-water angle.

The chowder was well within the limits of being branded as “too salty” and in an effort to highlight the shellfish as well as potage, a carousel of lively and aromatic salt varieties was passed around.  Grey, lavender, Persian blue, smoked, espellete and fleur de sel.

To Be Continued…

Part I: Preamble

Ceci est vrai, mon Général.

Tippy top-shelf guest list was not accurately represented, though 14 friendly orphans gathered around a table instead and provided exceptional company for an enjoyable feast.  Similar to and inspired by 2009’s successful Old-World meets New-World premise, a coastal New England menu was devised using traditional autumn ingredients with traditional French techniques.  Stalwart perennials included mulled cider, charcuterie, soup, turkey breast and legs cooked separately, Jansson’s temptation,  cheese and dessert.  Due to unshakable unemployment since returning from France, certain tasks were outsourced so as to alleviate the financial burden, in this case the adroitly mulled cider, mustache-force roasted nuts, selective cheese, ethereal dessert and, as always, libations.

Coastal menu

Slightly sticky, sweet, spicy, crunchy nuts roasted in a light butter caramel arrived courtesy of a former colleague and provided a welcome start to the evening.  2 variations of properly mulled cider were spearheaded by another guests and offered the essential social lubricant.  Warm apple cider infused with allspice, clove, star anise and cinnamon and proposed with either dark rum or bourbon steeped with dried apple chips and raisins.  Fantastic.  Pickled sour Mexican gherkins and yellow wax beans from the garden supplied essential acidity to whet the appetite and balance the delectable rillettes.

Mulled cider to be pumped. (insert fist pump emoticon)

Bostonmackerel, appropriately, was pickled in my red wine vinegar with carrots and red onions, dressed with extra virgin French olive oil and eaten with the help of antique cocktail forks bought at Ruff & Ready for a song.  Firm, pleasantly sour and a crunch from the carrots.  Nice contrast to the sweet cider and stoopid good rillettes.

Diff’rent forks for diff’rent dorks.

Far and away the most luscious element of the preamble was the unctuous and resourceful smoked turkey rillettes.  Cured and smoked turkey drumsticks were acquired from the venerable and aptly named Bestworld for pocket change and simmered in Berkshire pork leaf lard, bay leaf and peppercorns for a few ticks longer than the duration of, of…of…? until thoroughly hammered. Strained from the smoky fat, the meat was cleaned of the miserable plastic-like tendons that make turkey (and pheasant)  legs so unappealing and exhaustingly paddled by modern technology with the incorporation of the fat until smooth and pasty.  Some premium octane German mustard  and sherry vinegar for balance.  Potted in a pot, covered with remaining fat and left to do its thing in the fridge for a couple days.

Turkeyday preamble Olympic podium (you’re welcome, turkey).

I’ve been unabashedly bashful about some of the culinary flops documented in gustatory diary.  The rillettes is not one of them.  Tippiest toppest shelf product and formidable in its properly proportioned complexity.  Smoky, rich, salty, smooth, creamy, mustard heat, tartness from the vinegar, appealing color and an all around intoxicating aroma.  I’d gladly be embalmed with it if Root or Van Gogh espresso is not available.

Smooth, leggy, blonde and spreads.

Hearty crackers were an essential vehicle for consuming the poultry alchemy and a spit-shone curvy antique fish knife was the proper tool for administering such a voluptuous yet austere product on said cracker.

TBC…

Will work to pay rent.

Cancerous greed has deflated the country’s economy and America’s philistine pizza-burger mascot has left me hopelessly unemployed for 6 weeks with the last of savings about to run out. Despite the epicurean content here and qualifications, I can not find a restaurant job in 3rd rate recession-proof Washington, DC that doesn’t neuter me of any integrity.  Assistance finding a prep, butcher, working chef job or any means through which I can support myself through the bullshit holidays would be very much appreciated.

Resumé, repertoire, references and such on request.

Heard about the bird?

TG 2011 tentative top shelf guest list.

Jeff Bridges

My sister

Rick Harrison

Lisa Ling

Louis CK

Trine Lai

The Most Interesting Man in the World

Miss Piggy

Bonjwing Lee

Jimmy Wales

Tina Turner

Dave Eggers

Still need one more female.  Sarah Silverman has been considered, but may be too annoying. Will only invite Paula Poundstone  if she has a designated driver.  Suggestions, recommendations and precautions (in accordance with the guest consideration requirements ) welcome.

Special Good Mother and Good Egg Edition.

Fresh from the oven. 11/5/11 -5lbs, 2oz.

Nearly a fortnight ago as the infallible doctor-mandated temporal due date expired,  an expecting mother’s expectations had withered from frustration to desperation only to be reignited with traditional internet folklore.  According to Cobb County, Georgia legend, the revered eggplant parmigiana at Scalini’s old-fashioned Italian restaurant had, for better or much worse,  particularly labor inducing properties.  The ingredients themselves seem benign and the adulteration of nutritionally worthless eggplant.

Fertile soil

Eggplants are naturally high in nicotine and perhaps abundant levels of affection for kitschy guido bric-a-brac may help to explain why pregnant women’s bodies dislodged an abundant amount of cute-deficient babies after gorging themselves on really crappy Americanized Italian foodstuff.   (insert shudder emoticon).

Whether or not the expedient natural birth was a symptom or relief from the dutiful father-to-be’s rendition of eggplant placatingiana, not more than 3 hours later the couple welcomed the adorable tiny fruit of their mutual affection and steadfast commitment.

Drawn butter helps delivery up north.

A cook’s cook once said that anything worth doing was worth doing right and that the final product is a measure of effort, passion and dedication.  If the newborn is any indication, her folks must have done it right, intensely, and probably twice just to make sure.  In recognition of their compassionate endeavor, a soulful dinner to feed the soul was offered up. Roasted chicken -a centerpiece mainstay of homely nutrition, and as an allegory to the seasonal household addition  -cauliflower à la Polonaise.  As an extension of the fall harvest, a garnish of potatoes from the mother’s garden, glazed turnips and red pearl onions.

All natural, cage-free birthing bearth.

The bird was prepared and cooked in an orthodox manner (wishbone removed; drumsticks Frenched; stuffed with sliced lemon, garlic, thyme, dried chili and the last of summer’s savory; trussed) and left to roast on a bedding of standard vegetables and slices of another lemon.  The resulting creature attained a golden lacquer which retained an abundant reservoir of succulent juices with prevailing poultry, fragrant traces of herbs and echoes of citrus.  Paper booties were applied in lieu of a proper bowtie which was impossible to wear without a neck.  Meat was moist and clean, though if given the opportunity to serve in two acts, the legs would have returned backstage and simmered in the juices until entirely free from the bone.

Yellow Hot Cauliflower Crispies.

The pennant of Polonaise preparation involves garnishing with clarified butter, hard cooked eggs, bread crumbs and parlsey. Yellow cauliflower and romanesco were purchased for a song at the morning’s market.  No parsley.  No problem. Once manicured and whittled to florettes, the stalks were cooked down in stored poultry fat and made into a noble béchamel with the addition of flour, milk, nutmeg and piment d’espelette.  Meanwhile, as eggs were brought up to barely a boil, bread crumbs toasted in a pan with mashed garlic and the zest of a lime. The earthy béchamel lined the bottom of a dish and blanched cauliflower was spread on top, interspersed with halved eggs.  After a hot flash in the oven, rosemary scented poultry fat was drizzled for rizzle all over that shit (until chickens give milk, schmaltz will replace clarified butter) and a dusting of those bread crumbs provided that essential crun(k)ch.  All involved parties seemed satisfied, particularly the baby who, despite a strict regimen of mother’s milk,  apparently found no reason to protest.

Special “wow, that stinks” edition.

Very special hotdogs.

 The confluence of stubborn tradition, soulful ambition, and epicurean pride centers on inimitable Paris, France,   and hard sought apprenticeships for further exposure to the uncompromising practice and theory of traditional European meat trades at decorated master charcutier  Gilles Verot and celebrated artisan butcher  Hugo Desnoyer.

A city which transcends all others.

For 3 weeks in September, on the cusp of fall in enchanting Paris, I had the exceptional opportunity and pleasure of being taken in by the staff at Gilles Verot’s production shop on rue Lecourbe in the 14^th arrondissement.  While the sheer quantities of raw product exceeded my expectations (1800 lbs of hams, jowls, fat, shanks, blood and loins received on a Tuesday), the fabrications remained deceptively simple.  Not easy, but not contrived or needlessly manipulated either.  Streamlined –though laborious- steps that ensured a high rate of production and unwavering consistency with minimal processing of Spartan parts.

Meet the meat.

Not too many mystical fabrications match the genuinely unpleasant appeal (more in terms of robust odor, as with certain cheeses, than flavor) of artisinal products lingering in France’s dusty recesses of charcuterie and its olfactorily offensive offal fraternity:  andouilles, and their sisterly andouillettes -a charred tubesteak eaten 4 years ago- composed of innards which carry body badness outwards offering a texture and whiff of organic balloon ends last inflated by the dying breaths of death deities who subsisted on Maroilles and Vieux-Boulogne cheese hot pockets.  In the annals of comestible western civilization, many coprophagous analogies have been made.  I have come closer to those than most (except puppies and sürstromming consumers). I would gladly regale my own grandchildren with tales of ancestral courage if my proliferation were not sanctioned by the damned prophylactic tongue-wilting barnyard sausage which even copious mouthfuls of strong mustard could not assuage.

Andouilles. Now with 10% more real assholes!

The business end of a 150lb batch of “andouillettes à la ficelle” still evokes the collective backsides of Animal Planet and its musky attributes range from removing pleats and wrinkles out of trousers to perm straightening sex panther cologne.  These andouillettes are in the style of Troyes, but not named as such since the Code of Charcuterie Usage mandates, like other appellations, that the product must conform to geographical provenance and ingredients*.  Ficelle corresponds to the string that is used to pull the filling through the casing.  The French homonym of andouille is “imbecile”,  though the term is said to be derived from the Latin inductile which means “to introduce into or insert”

bucket list #74 Clean buckets of pork middles.

Large intestines from pigs are soaked in warm water to remove their packaging salt, stretched flat, cut lengthwise and left to soak in a white wine vinegar and water mixture to neutralize some of the god-awful smell.  Pork stomachs are poached  -resembling fleshy WWII era aviator caps once cooked, though far more tender- and sliced into strips.  Pork deckles are cut into equally sized strips.  The middles are blanched until they reach a peyote shape and once cooled are mixed with salt, spices and enough Dijon mustard to sooth the sinuses of 4 college football teams their drug dealers and respective marching bands.

Whiskey bottles and pork middles…Ooh-Ooh that smell.

Aside from stifling heavy handed aperitifs the night before, such simple  tubesteaks -though lengthy, arcane and very stinky- are a sobering Fernsehturm palast der republik-ish  monument to austere, resourceful, natural ingredients, which, along with blood sausage (blood, fat, onions, casings and occasionally cereal grains -a delectable Estonian version has barley) are surprisingly refreshing considering the abusive levels at which American foods are so highly processed and filled with a different, lab derived, kind of (s)crap, though distributed to more traditional –even pioneering- palates.

P-pp-pull it. Pull it real good.

A revised verdict includes andouilles de Vire (brined belly, cooked stomach, poached intestines and ground pork stuffed into a beef bung, smoked then poached) and Guémené (butterflied intestines, poached then rolled in concentric rings, often with a cured belly center) to be acceptable, both of which can be chewed on cold or hot, though neither repast merits  walking  any amount of miles in flip-flops to savour. The Troyes variety however  remains confined to a personal bastion where it can do no harm.

At last, a bag for the gastroenterologist who has everything.

The true merit of a charcutier’s skill might be measured by the noble, forgotten dirty work.  Few fabrications involve such minimally processed, austere raw ingredients.  Pork middles, pork stomachs, salt, mustard and spices.  Simmered, cooled, cut, seasoned, stuffed, cooked again and kept in fat or its own gelatin.  And yet, the final product is a hard pill to swallow, though an appreciation for the humdrum otherwise discarded ingredients in endearing, almost bearable with enough mustard and nasal congestion.

Like the rings on a tree, only they measure how many years your hands will smell.

A close relative, Andouille Guemené from Brittany is like scoring an emerald Jujubee in the dark at the movies after a handful of ebony ones.  Not quite a fruit cocktail, but at least a palatable flavor reminiscent of toothpaste.  Guemené is like a belly section of the pig built like a Combos, but not really snack worthy.  A crowd pleasing center of pork belly wrapped in concentric rings of pork middles.  Cooked, wrapped in some sort of wax and can be enjoyed cold, like revenge.  Or, heated up in rows along side coins of blood sausage slivers and braised pork belly on savoury pastry:  a calorie-rich slice of pizza at the rugby equivalent of the SuperBowl.

The definitive American contribution to sausage ingenuity.

At the very least, particularly for the sensorially vacant veterans who indifferently jiggle the goods bareback, fabricating andouilles ensures ample personal space on public transportation and a wide “stinking drunk” buffer zone at the bar. Still, it remains a time honored monument to resourcefulness,  patience, practice, dedication,  discipline and pursuit in making gilded purses from intestinal burlap.

*pig insides have been used exclusively since veal tripe were forbidden in 2000 after the crazy cow case, thereupon halting the production of Andouillette de Cambrai.  Since 2008 however, new regulations lifted the ban.

]]> http://kitschnclassics.wordpress.com/2011/11/01/andouilles-et-andouillettes-chez-gilles-verot-edition-speciale-%c2%ab-ouf-ca-fouette-%c2%bb/feed/ 0 òste e còc http://kitschnclassics.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/l%e2%80%99indignite-de-voyager-en-avion/ http://kitschnclassics.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/l%e2%80%99indignite-de-voyager-en-avion/#comments Mon, 12 Sep 2011 18:15:10 +0000 òste e còc http://kitschnclassics.wordpress.com/?p=916 ]]> The indignity of flying in a plane.

Why-fi?

To borrow an observation from an astute friend who flew internationally more recently than I, there is a great indignity that comes with flying steerage class. I now share his contempt for the soul crushing shame of modern middle class aviation; somewhere between being grudgingly coddled with hallow, calloused, court-ordered hands at an institutional daycare and herded with cattle-shaped meat bags in some industrial feedlot, all for just under the insulting price of $1000. No amount of interactive television/movie selections can prepare, distract from or relieve the absolute humiliation of feeding time. Paltry, vapid rations befitting and possibly inspired by a refugee camp jail’s infirmary. Sinister airline numbers (space & price) are moving in opposite directions than passengers’ numbers (weight & salary) and we might all benefit from being anesthetized before takeoff and stored like lumber over bedpans. Airline hostesses will then have earned their “flight attendant” re-branding.

Last week’s Charlotte to Paris US Air flight presented the unsavory choice of pasta or chicken with rice. The decision was swift and deliberate: avoid any protein from the most soulless, mistreated, inferior, environmentally offending animal and any simple starch that even a revered Top Chef contestant with tattoos can’t get right. The only immediate regret however was not to have followed mother’s enlightened fuga modus operandi and ordered a special kosher/hindu/vegawhatever meal prior; some lesser of all evils sustenance that generally demands an underpaid laborer’s modest amount of special attention and perhaps respite from the drool inducing tedium of feeding us suckers.  The hopelessly naïve neighbor was appropriately and predictable disgusted  by her choice of “chicken”, though also confused by underwater cities named “Egypt”, “Bismark” and “Lusitania” on the interactive in-flight map.

Lunchthansa (don't mention the war).

The pasta was slightly better than the creepy manicotti impostor at Washington Medical Center though the accompanying salad with it’s single slice of cucumber and two currant sized tomatoes could have been squeezed into a thimble. The chewy (possibly undercooked) cookie bar with Lilliputian chocolate chip was alleged to have been “hand made” and the ingredients list went a step further by indicating that said 1oz. slice of dough was “made with love” as well. Cute. $7 for a shitty beer or plonk however is scandalous. I sincerely hope the executive fat cats from airlines who sanction such airway robbery get syphilis and that their internet stops working.

When patio class was fashionable.

“Breakfast” was an affront to the morning ritual, my Danish heritage and humanity. A limp, doughy something with some shitty pastry cream inside, sealed in a plastic back and tossed to me on a napkin like I was some fucking seal with opposable thumbs, manners and a sweet tooth. Coffee would come much, much later. Bewilderment. Like the traditional legacy or mandated nostalgia with “no smoking” signs. When was the last time someone fired up a Pall Mall on a plane?   I sincerely hope the executive fat cats from airlines who sanction such food practices get staph infections on their genitals and that their houses burn down.

Diety class on a mother-effin' plane.

I can recall a time when being a passenger commanded respect and dressing up to fly didn’t mean dressing down to something with an elastic waistband. I remember getting starched on free wine and booze, a suitable portion of stuffed breaded chicken breast for dinner, am inspired (by airport cafeteria standards) salad of sorts and a bona fide breakfast in the morning. On a tray. With simple bread. And butter. Or jam! With a cup of orange juice. And a small cup for my coffee. I am, however, grateful for the FAA mandated nostalgia of eternally lit “no smoking” sign which reminds me and other masochistic airborne ballast a not fire up a Pall Mall during the insufferable idle between repast and elixir.

I would also like to remind my fellow international seat warmers to leave with roomy collapsible luggage and check it like any other civilized passenger. The extra 15 minutes spent at the carousel  with smuggled sundries will not be in vain and others’ flight won’t start and end with an ass in their face while impatient rubes struggle to cram “object A” into smaller “space B”.