A Fat Cat for 2 Hours: My Fling with Business Class


A Fat Cat for 2 Hours: My Fling with Business Class

Illustration: Saachi Mehta/ Arré


ofu tastes like bread dipped in water but it’s everywhere. It was there 39,000 feet up in the sky, on my list of meal options, on my maiden business-class flight. I could either pick a regular, well-behaved lamb-something dish, or the wildcard garlic chicken with tofu. Tofu’s posh nothingness seemed appealing enough; it’s like that annoying friend-of-convenience who’s just there each time you turn around, smiling foolishly. So, I asked my Colgate-smiling server to get me the chicken with tofu. “No problem,” she assured me, and then she disappeared.

That was the first thing I noticed about seat 2C, the first five rows of the flight really: the profusion of the phrase “no problem”. Everything I said, even things I thought of in my head, were met with a cheery “no problem”. The person serving me was genuinely excited about offering me the option of drinking apple juice, orange juice, or water. She was warm and friendly with a genuine smile, not the peculiar bite-your-tongue-grit-your-teeth half-smile-half-scoff found often in economy (ugh, economy). I was handed a steaming hot towel to caress my precious face, and when I asked for a beer, I got a chilled can within seconds – the fancy kind, which I can neither pronounce nor type out. And before I could even finish, there was another one in front of me. I had never known a world like this.