A "fresh buttery taste spread". Faint praise indeed. The legal department of the food division must be proud. Though, on reflection, I'm using "food" in it's "food-like" sense. You really shouldn't eat on planes.
Saturday was a contrasting day for food. It began well enough with a very acceptable muffin - at a somewhat less acceptable hour - in San Francisco airport.
Chicago provided plenty of time and plenty of variety to get something decent to eat before the advent of "fresh buttery" tastes.
A salad, I thought, vanity and sanity in rare congruence. The "freshly tossed" sign on a salad bar drew my attention - as did the idea of barbecue chicken and southwestern-ish style ingredients.
South Western in Chicago - what could go wrong?
We humans run on rails, often with many of our actions rendered automatic by repetition.
The construction began with romaine lettuce but it wasn't until the croutons that I suspected there was something amiss. At that exact moment the preparer looked at the contents of her mixing bowl.
We laughed, she apologized and made to throw the salad away and begin anew. Given they were all the same price, I opted for the current contents.
She asked if I wanted anything else in my salad. "Tortilla chips," I said and she tossed generous handfuls of red and black chips into my Classic Chicken Casear.