O’DAY’S TRAVEL WOES #91: HOW I TAUGHT THE WORLD TO EAT CAVIAR

October, 1996 (continued):

I returned to Warsaw, Poland, to speak at the Radio Conference Warszawa 1996. (My first trip to Poland was a year earlier, to speak at the same conference.)

The organizers had arranged for First Class airfare on Delta to Warsaw (via Frankfurt). In an attempt to justify the ridiculously high prices charged for international First Class service, at the time United Airlines served caviar to those lucky few sitting at the front of the plane.

As any UA road warrior will tell, United stopped serving caviar long ago. (Except, presumably, in the executive dining room.)

United  also served caviar to their Business Class passengers but saved the Beluga —”the really good stuff” — for First Class.

The distinction is lost on me, of course. To me, “Beluga” is the name of a baby whale in a song by Raffi. But I know caviar is expensive and, supposedly, a delicacy. So I eat the stuff when it’s offered to me. )

Anyway….We’re up in the air and the crew serves the caviar, with full condiments (onion, chopped egg, sour cream, lemon, toast).

Naturally, there is a “proper” way to eat caviar.

Not surprisingly, I have no idea what that proper way is.

So I followed my usual (undoubtedly wrong and terrible gauche) procedure of squeezing lemon on the caviar, spreading sour cream on the toast, covering the sour cream with caviar, and sprinkling chopped egg on top.

(I always decline the offer of chopped onion. I also decline the accompanying offer of a glass of presumably very expensive vodka.)

My seatmate was an electrical engineer who spoke with an accent I could not place. We had exchanged hellos and barely more than that.

As I brought the first bite of caviar to my lips, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that he was studying my every action. Oh, no. He was watching me to learn how to eat caviar.

As I popped the bite of toast into my mouth, he completed his copy of my preparations and did the same with his.

Casually, I picked up my knife and slid some sour cream along the blade.

My seatmate did the same.

With my spoon, I applied a dollop of caviar.

A moment later, so did he.

I spread the contents of the knife onto my fork, put the fork on my plate, and squeezed the lemon over it.

Then I sprinkled some egg on top and without hesitation brought the fork to my mouth with a confident, fluid motion.

Just as my seatmate did, moments later.

(Hey, for all I know that is the way you’re supposed to eat caviar.)