I just took my annual trip to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.
Five days of golf, perfect sunny weather—91 degrees and clear every day—and excellent food prepared by our hired chef.
I also had to experience the most horrible food imaginable on United Airlines.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m loyal to United.
The seats in business class are comfortable, although my first-row seat, 1E, didn’t recline because of a busted switch. Hey, shit happens.
The movie selection was good. The new Robin Hood movie was my choice. The only problem was that neither my Bose headset nor the earbuds the flight attendant handed me would work. Something else was busted, I suppose.
I got this seat with United frequent-flier points.
I told you I was loyal, right? So the flight cost me zilch, zero, nada. I like that a lot.
But why would they try to poison me on the way down to the Dominican Republic? And when they failed in that assassination attempt, why try it again on the return trip to Newark?
Peruvian Chicken Casserole sounded great. But when the very cute—and, for my friend Don, very age-appropriate—flight attendant placed the tray in front of me, I could tell from the aroma that something was off.
Let me be real: “aroma” is not the right word. It was more like a stink—a stench. More like rotted chicken flesh left out in the Punta Cana sun for a week or 10 days.
Desperate to get the carrion away from me, I hit the blue button to summon the flight attendant.
Being as nice as I could, I said, “Miss, I’m sorry, but I cannot eat this.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. May I ask why?”
My answer was very sweet. I generally have a way with cute Irish women. I told her my mother and grandmothers would be upset if I ate this food. We are Italian, after all, and we expect excellence from the kitchen.
She swooned at me like I was the Italian movie star Rossano Brazzi—or maybe that was the look of someone ready to puke. I couldn’t quite tell.
I wanted to say, “Lady, have you no sense of smell?” But I didn’t. I’m really trying to improve my reputation for being an asshole.
My eldest son has been trying to counsel me ever since I called the woman manager at his eye doctor’s office an offensive curse word. Believe me, she almost deserved it.
Back to the United flight: I was so nice that she gave me 2,500 free miles in my United account and a snack package worth about 4,000 calories.
Then I figured out the trickery. If they couldn’t kill me with rancid Peruvian Chicken Casserole, they would get me with the salt content in the free snack package. If that failed, they had the return trip to whack me—or the next trip, which they were now subsidizing with an additional 2,500 teaser miles.
I lived through the week and took the return trip to Newark Airport, which is the worst-smelling place on the planet. It makes the Peruvian chicken smell like Chanel No. 5—or that $500-a-bottle men’s cologne my son tries to bribe me with every Christmas to encourage me to behave better in public.
He still can’t get over the fact that I’ve been banned from the local CVS, Mania’s Hair Salon in town, and Wegmans grocery store.
I also had an issue with the local post office, but the guy retired, and I was able to go back.
Look, it’s not every CVS, Wegmans, or post office. Just the ones in town.
As for the hair salon, I had an appointment with the so-called barber. They made me wait like it was a frigging cardiologist’s office. I admit I was rude. The girl was very cute, so I was out of character.
But I digress.
The entrée choices on the flight home were the Peruvian Poison Casserole or a manicotti dish.
My mother didn’t raise a fool.
I went with the manicotti.
I could have carried on to the point where they would have duct-taped me to the seat and had me arrested upon landing, but I was a perfect gentleman.
I smiled and handed the tray back to the flight attendant within 35 seconds.
I took one corner piece of the dried-out, almost purple rainbow pasta and tasted it. It smelled like the year-and-a-half-old Korean kid in the next aisle had blasted out his last two kimchi meals.
I wanted to die in my seat.
Bile came to the top of my throat, and I felt some in my nasal cavity.
I will not travel on United again without renewing my diphtheria and tetanus shots and bringing a sandwich from Katz’s Delicatessen on Houston Street in Manhattan.
Better yet, I can choose not to eat for three and a half hours. That’s not unheard of in most countries in this world. It’s not like a famine or a Gandhi hunger strike.
It’s a lousy three-and-a-half-hour trip without food.
C’mon now, will ya?
