Frequent-flier feasts

National Review, Jan 26, 1998 by Andrew Oliver

Mr. Oliver is NR's articles editor.

THE most terrifying sound a passenger hears on a plane is typically that little noise the wheels make as they shudder into the hold shortly after takeoff. But the second most terrifying sound has got to be, "Chicken or beef?" How many passengers have asked themselves whether, with an important meeting ahead, they should risk the beef bourguignonne? And how many passengers can have failed to wonder why the serving size seems calculated to fit neatly into the motion-discomfort bag?

So we at NATIONAL REVIEW asked ourselves, Why swallow such an atrocious meal? Before you head for the sky, why not carry on some ambrosia in your carry-on luggage? Of course, being reasonable sorts, we didn't want to take things too far -- as Digby Anderson may have done several years ago in NR when he suggested, as an in-flight meal, oysters packed in seaweed accompanied by squid served in its own ink (Sept. 14, 1992). But we were still taken with the idea.

So we enlisted some of the top talent in the Manhattan food industry to put together the perfect in-flight meal. There were only three restrictions. First, the dishes had to be things that could be served cold. (Unwieldy heating apparatus do, of course, exist. And flambes can be done with only a match. But the purpose of the contest was substance, not style.) Second, the meals had to be portable -- no wild boar. Finally, more than a sandwich was required -- on the grounds that there is no point in having a professional chef produce something which one could reasonably be expected to put together oneself. All the contestants performed marvelously, and we extend thanks to each of them. But two were particularly impressive. Herewith, we award a shared prize for first place.

Vittorio Assante of Da Vittorio on East 20th Street was initially skeptical about the idea. Having adapted to life in the land of the free, he had assumed that there was a law against transporting food onto a plane. But when we informed him that, in fact, it had not yet been outlawed, he rose to the challenge and prepared a lavish feast.

He presented such large portions of pasta salad, venison carpaccio, and boiled vegetables, spread out on three plates, that it was not instantly apparent that the meal had not violated rule number two. However, a brief examination established that it would in fact fit below the seat, or in the overhead compartment. And, indeed, smaller portions could easily be arranged. Clearly, Mr. Assante is used to traveling first class.

The pasta was penne al dente with chopped tomatoes, pesto, and chopped mozzarella di bufala, all sprinkled with salt and pepper and extra-virgin olive oil. The venison carpaccio was a filet of venison, sliced thin, served with sliced ripe tomatoes, Parmesan, and white truffles on a bed of arugula, once again bathed in extra-virgin olive oil, with a dash each of lemon, mustard, and salt and pepper. Mr. Assante explained that since venison was the leanest meat -- far leaner than beef -- it was appropriate for those who would be spending their day squeezed into a comfortable six inches of leg room. (He also mused about making a summer special out of the venison, it had turned out so well.) The boiled vegetables -- peas, carrots, potatoes, and zucchini -- were neatly arranged like a pinwheel. While the presentation might not survive being lugged through an airport, the effect was striking and the flavor fantastic.

Our second first-place award goes to Chris Dillon of the Park Bistro on Park Avenue South. Mr. Dillon's entry was a bit more portable --a guinea-hen terrine and a sandwich de Provence -- perhaps because over the last several years he has done a fair amount of traveling. In 1995, he flew to Paris to work for Jo -- l Robuchon -- without, he confesses, first taking the precaution of obtaining a position from Mr. Robuchon. Every morning at 8 o'clock, he went to Robuchon's and asked if he could have a job. Every morning for a month the door was slammed in his face. Finally someone told him that, if he came back the next day, he could work -- for one day only -- cutting vegetables. He returned the next day. And then the next. Nobody asked him to leave, and so he stayed. For four months. He later got jobs at Pierre Gagnarie in Paris and Picholine in New York -- and spent the time in between working as a bodyguard and a bouncer --before ending up as head chef at the Park Bistro.

The guinea-hen terrine was adapted from a lunch special occasionally available at the restaurant. The hen was stuffed with wild mushrooms, black truffles, roasted apples, and fresh herbs; and it was served with a compote of fresh autumn fruits and vegetables. For a short flight, the hen would make an ideal meal by itself. But for longer flights, Mr. Dillon suggested that it be accompanied by a sandwich de Provence, made by hollowing out a large loaf of pain-petard and stuffing it with grilled eggplant, zucchini, peppers, goat cheese, and sliced caramelized onions, all mixed with olive oil and a clove of garlic. The bread is then allowed to sit for an evening, and is cut into heavenly slices the next day. All in all, a feast fit for a frequent flier.