Somewhere between the drink cart and the duty-free trolley, a familiar question floats down the aisle: “Chicken or pasta?” It’s asked in that quiet, practiced voice cabin crew have perfected over decades — friendly, efficient, and with just enough optimism to suggest they truly believe you’ll enjoy either choice.
For years, I’d politely decline, convinced that airplane meals were a relic best avoided. I’d pack snacks, try to “eat before the flight,” or survive on coffee until landing. But somewhere along the way — during a string of long-haul flights when my willpower wilted and the smell of warm bread rolls drifted my way — I started saying yes. And once I did, I realized that accepting the meal is less about hunger and more about rhythm, comfort, and travel itself.
Now, I always eat the in-flight meal, even when it’s the infamous chicken or pasta. And here’s why.
Flying long distances blurs time. The departure city, the destination, and the space in between merge into an oddly lit, climate-controlled limbo. An in-flight meal is one of the few tangible markers of time passing.
Airline catering schedules are meticulously planned to match the arc of your journey — often serving a main meal shortly after takeoff, a lighter one before landing, and snacks in between. This pacing isn’t random. It’s designed to help your body transition between time zones. Eating when the cabin serves food signals to your internal clock that this is “mealtime” in the new rhythm you’re adopting.
A former airline catering manager once told me, “We think of meals as mile markers in the sky. They break up the monotony, help passengers orient themselves, and frankly, keep people calm.” That’s not marketing fluff — it’s basic human psychology at 35,000 feet.
The perception that airplane food is unhealthy or overly processed is partly outdated. Modern airline catering, especially on international carriers, often involves partnerships with well-known chefs or nutrition consultants.
Fact: According to the International Flight Services Association, most airlines now prepare meals less than 24 hours before departure, flash-chill them, and load them into galley ovens for reheating. This means the chicken or pasta in front of you has likely been cooked and cooled, not frozen for weeks.
Some airlines even source fresh produce from farms near their catering hubs. I’ve had salads on flights from Tokyo that tasted like they’d been prepped an hour ago — crisp greens, perfectly ripe cherry tomatoes, and a miso dressing that was more flavorful than some ground-level cafés.
One of my favorite parts of eating the in-flight meal is that it often reflects the culture of where you’re headed (or where you’ve just been). Flying to Seoul? Expect kimchi alongside your main. On a flight from Mumbai, I once had a mild chicken curry with saffron rice that felt like a warm send-off.
Airlines use meals as a soft introduction to a destination’s flavors. It’s a subtle form of storytelling — the way a bread roll and butter on a Paris-bound flight somehow tastes different than the one you get en route to New York.
Even the much-maligned “chicken or pasta” duo changes with geography. In Italy, the pasta may be handmade by a regional caterer; in Japan, the chicken might be served with teriyaki glaze and rice instead of mashed potatoes.
Cabin air is notoriously dry — humidity can be as low as 10%, compared to 30–60% in most indoor environments. This not only dehydrates you but also makes you feel more fatigued.
Meals on flights are intentionally designed to include higher liquid content — sauces, dressings, fruits — because they contribute to hydration. Even the salty bread roll you eye suspiciously is served alongside water, juice, or tea, helping you consume fluids at regular intervals.
Skip the meal, and you might also skip these mini-hydration breaks. By the time you land, that can add up to headaches, sluggishness, and feeling more jet-lagged than necessary.
On long-haul flights, meal service is one of the few times the cabin lights come up, the aisles buzz with movement, and you’re prompted to change your posture. Reaching for your tray, unwrapping cutlery, and sitting upright to eat may seem minor, but it’s better for your circulation than curling up in a half-sleep for eight hours straight.
I’ve used the meal service as an excuse to stand for a few minutes before eating — a quick stretch by the galley, a trip to the restroom, a sip of water while chatting with the crew. These breaks make the hours feel shorter and your body less stiff when you land.
There’s an unspoken camaraderie during meal service. People glance at each other’s trays, compare choices, maybe even swap side dishes with a travel companion. On solo trips, I’ve had some of my best in-flight conversations sparked by the shared ritual of unpeeling dessert cups and asking, “What did you think of this?”
Even if you don’t talk to anyone, there’s comfort in that collective moment — a reminder that you’re sharing this journey with hundreds of strangers who are, for now, your community in the sky.
Eating in sync with your destination’s time zone is one of the most overlooked tools for managing jet lag. Research published in Chronobiology International found that meal timing can influence circadian rhythms almost as much as light exposure.
By eating when the cabin crew serves meals — which are timed for the destination — you’re essentially rehearsing your new schedule before you land. I’ve noticed that on flights to Europe, saying yes to dinner service right after boarding (even if it’s technically 3 a.m. at home) makes adjusting the next day easier.
Airport dining has improved in many hubs, but it’s still a gamble — overpriced, crowded, and sometimes requiring a rushed experience just to make boarding time.
Onboard, you’ve already paid for the meal. It arrives at your seat, there’s no tipping, and you can eat it in the comfort of your travel clothes without balancing a tray on your lap in a noisy gate area. It’s not fine dining, but it’s predictable, and when you’re traveling, predictability has value.
Airline meals may not be Michelin-starred, but they do offer a moment of ceremony. The tray arrives with compartments: main course, side salad, bread, dessert. There’s a sequence to unwrapping and arranging things. It’s a tactile experience in an environment where your senses are otherwise dulled.
In business or first class, this ritual is elevated — linens, real cutlery, multiple courses — but even in economy, there’s something satisfying about having a “real” meal rather than a protein bar pulled from your bag.
Some of my clearest memories of certain flights involve the meal — not because it was extraordinary, but because it was part of the experience. The curry on a flight out of Delhi while watching the lights of the city disappear. The pasta on a transatlantic red-eye, eaten while quietly listening to an unfamiliar language in the row behind me.
Food has that power: to lodge in your memory as a sensory bookmark for a time and place. Skipping it means missing one more layer of the journey.
If you have dietary preferences or want the freshest possible option, pre-order a special meal (vegetarian, Asian vegetarian, low-sodium, etc.) when booking. These are usually served first and are often prepared separately, which can mean higher quality.
Accepting the in-flight meal isn’t about culinary excellence. It’s about participating in the rhythms of travel, using food as a way to anchor your body and mind in an unfamiliar environment. It’s hydration, community, and cultural preview rolled into one slightly cramped tray.
And yes, sometimes the chicken is a little dry or the pasta is overcooked. But it’s still part of the journey — a reminder that travel isn’t just about where you’re going, but how you get there. In the air, even something as small as a bread roll and butter can feel like an event worth savoring.
