The ominous and ill boding question we all dread at 35,000 feet.  Directed at us in a voice dripping with promise by a friendly underpaid flight attendant in an ill fitting suit and too much make up. For a split second, you can almost imagine yourself digging into your favorite risotto, creamy and comforting, followed by a decadently rich chocolate cake. Until the plastic tray is dumped on the stupid little table in front of you. Still hopeful, you peel back the aluminum foil, burning your fingers. Ah, there it is. Chicken or beef?

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So, what will you have next time? Pasta or fish?