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AIRLINES UPPER CLASS – VIRGIN ATLANTIC
I felt myself fortunate even to get to Terminal Three at Heathrow. My taxi driver had arrived late, and had then proceeded to negotiate his insanitary vehicle at the pace of a gastropod, while demonstrating a remarkable facility for ignoring both the markings on the roads and the consequent blasts from the horns of those motorists unfortunate enough to be sharing those roads with us. God bless the good taxi drivers! If you can find one, stick with him (or her). I have not seen the newly renovated Virgin Clubhouse at Heathrow. I imagine it is rather good; it certainly was in its previous incarnation. Sadly, on this occasion, I was not able to use it, so I cannot report on its facilities. So it was on to the aeroplane, bound for Los Angeles. It is difficult to give you a price for the return ticket on Upper Class. As with all the airlines nowadays, the prices go this way and that and depend on so many factors, most of them beyond my ken. Suffice it to say that, if you can book a very long time ahead and you do not need any element of flexibility, you can secure a fare of around £2,500 – which strikes me as something of a bargain. The turn to the left made, I surveyed my surroundings. The cabin was spick and span, in the way we expect, and the colour scheme of grey and purple was pleasant. The seats were arranged diagonally, upholstered in soft leather and had high sides. I felt that I had entered a small area of my own. It was not exactly a private world, but it did seem like a separate world. Soon I was enjoying a glass of champagne (Charles Heidsieck Brut Réserve), reassured – as I always am – by champagne’s magic ability to maintain its bouquet in the most difficult of environments. There were, of course, electrical controls for all sorts of things, and I am sure that the many of you who do not share my own technological illiteracy would have enjoyed playing with them. I was simply relieved that there was one for the lumbar support in the seat, so that my role as Martyr to the Bad Back could be cast aside for a few hours. I think it would have been possible to eat the main meal at any time, but I was content to join my fellow passengers in dining soon after take-off and thereafter attempting to find the Land of Nod. A white linen tablecloth and napkin therefore appeared on the substantial table which the stewardess had caused to appear before me. Strong, straightforward flavours are what we need in the clouds, to overcome the destructive effect on our palates of the pressurized cabin. A salad of salmon with fennel, beetroot and a herb dressing fitted the bill, as did the following steak and kidney pie with sautéed Savoy cabbage. Then came the two courses which always seem to be good in the air – cheese and pudding. I particularly liked the Coastal cheddar cheese, served with crackers and grapes, and the rhubarb mousse, with which, at my request, I was served the only comestible which truly glories in high altitude – ice cream.
Thus fed and watered, I was ready to attempt to achieve the impossible – sleep. Were I not so anxious about what might happen in an emergency, I would probably be willing to take an elephant-sized sleeping draught to bring on oblivion, but the next best stratagem on an aeroplane is to lie horizontally. The stewardess appeared and performed her magic. With the pressing of buttons and a modicum of whirring, my seat was transformed into a completely flat bed. I did not put on the ‘sleeping suit’ which was offered to me – the prospect of climbing in and out of pyjamas within the confines of the loo being somewhat off-putting. But I did get onto the bed, with a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body. Did I sleep? I supposed not, but I think that on this occasion I must have supposed erroneously. I simply had to have slept, for otherwise the many hours would not have passed so quickly. Indeed, even before I had time to get truly grumpy, I was being served afternoon tea, with sandwiches, lemon cake and – the highlight – an excellent warm scone. And then it was time to prepare for the landing. Even for his miserable flier, this was a good flight. Remember, then: a gentleman (or a lady) must always turn left when entering an aeroplane. Remember, too: if you are on a Virgin Atlantic aeroplane, you will be about to enjoy Upper Class.
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ADDRESSES VIRGIN ATLANTIC UPPER CLASS
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© Francis Bown 2003
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman, upon boarding an aeroplane, should turn, not to his right, but to his left. As the world’s worst passenger – grumpy, impatient, anxious, fearful and insomniac – I am peculiarly well-placed to testify to the accuracy of this statement. A purgatorial period of ten or eleven hours in the air is not my idea of fun, and the thought of having to endure it after the dreaded veer to the right is more than my feeble frame can endure. But on the left... ah, the left is a different matter altogether. On the left is the promise of comfort, attentive service and even – dare we whisper it? – luxury. The promise, of course, is not always fulfilled. But, when it is, the experience of air travel becomes (almost) pleasurable. I therefore hereby record my thanks to Virgin Atlantic and its Upper Class service.
The wines were all supplied by Berry Brothers & Rudd. For your convenience, I sampled all six. The Chilean chardonnay (Monte Verde, 2007) came over as lean, and the Italian pinot grigio (Fossaluzza, 2007) as rather flat. As always, the sauvignon blanc grape survived best in this strange environment, here combined with some viogner (from France – Bertier, 2007), and yielded grass, lemon and bright acidity. Of the reds, the Brazilian cabernet/shiraz (Rio Sol, 2006) proved a strange beast. If I had been blind-folded, I would probably have thought it a white, such was its sharpness. The Southern French cabernet/petit verdot (Coussergues, 2007) was purple in colour, with unyielding tannins. By far the best was the Spanish tempranillo (La Legua Roble, 2006) – smooth, well-structured, with lots of vanilla and blackcurrant. How any of these wines would taste on the ground, is quite another matter.