In the interests of variety, your correspondent is writing today from a seat in row 54 of a Qantas 747, a very long way above the South Pacific. The digital flight map, across which our plane crawls with fantastic slowness, reveals that eleven hours have passed since we took off from Dallas. Which leaves a little less than six to go before we land in Brisbane. That’s the idea anyway. Apparently if headwinds turn out stronger than forecast, planes flying this Dallas-Brisbane nonstop sometimes run short of fuel and have to make a pit stop on Noumea: an island which, on my digital flight map, only looks about twice the length of a Qantas 747. So that would be exciting. But I’m sure we’ll be fine. The flight is only two-thirds full—a rare treat for those onboard—and I suppose the fact that it’s not fully laden improves the likelihood of it going the distance.
It’s been almost four years since I’ve been back to visit the place I used to call ‘home’—Melbourne—and far too long since our kids have seen their Australian grandparents. This trip has been in the planning stages for the best part of a year and it would be difficult to overstate the level of excitement the children had worked themselves up to by the time the plane left. Four hours after departure though, the novelty had worn off, and now they’re fast asleep, sprawled across a row of seats in the kind of comfort that only small children can hope to experience in the cattle class cabin.
Not that it’s terrible back here. Australia being where it is, Qantas has pretty much perfected the art of keeping four hundred passengers mollified for the duration of a transcontinental flight. The plane is new; there’s a TV in every seatback. And believe it or not, the food isn’t half bad. With the chicken in creamy tequila sauce was offered a variety of Australian wines and beers. There was sparkling wine if you wanted it. The bread was crusty. The kids were offered ice cream and hot chocolate after dinner; and cheerful flight attendants materialize bearing snacks and fruit juice every couple of hours. Most astonishing: it’s all included. No-one tries to charge you six bucks for a flaccid sandwich or rubbery cheese pizza and there’s not a packet of pretzels in sight. America, you lead the world in many things but from my vantage point back here in deep coach I have to say that when it comes to inflight service you have dropped the ball. God knows what’s going on up in first class.
On our trip to Australia we are taking our role as ambassadors of Louisiana cuisine as seriously as Aussie customs is likely to allow. So while it’s regrettably not possible to bring boiled crawfish or king cakes into the country, we do have a large portion of our carry-on baggage stuffed with packets of Oak Grove jambalaya mix, gumbo starter, filé, Tony Chachere’s, and a galaxy of strangely named Louisiana hot sauces wrapped up in pairs of socks. The food in Australia is terrific—fresh and eclectic and enriched with enormously diverse influences from the four corners of the world, particularly Asia. What’s more, because a great deal of immigration to Australian has happened in the past fifty years, many of the cuisines on offer are highly authentic—faithful renditions of the dishes loved and longed for by the homesick new Australians who prepare them. But Louisiana Cajun and Creole cuisine is not well represented there, probably because there’s not been much West African influence on Australia’s culinary culture. So it’s fun to wave the flag by working up a big pot of duck and sausage gumbo or seafood jambalaya for the Aussie friends and family. I hope customs doesn’t confiscate the jambalaya mix; they’re strict about bringing in foodstuffs for fear of introducing some foreign pest into Australia’s fragile ecology. But if they do, I guess it won’t kill us to make our jambalaya from scratch, either.
So on this trip there’s lots to look forward to, culinary and otherwise. But first things first. If there’s one thing I’m possibly more excited about than anything else, it has to be the roast leg of lamb my Mum has promised to cook for us when we arrive. Popular and inexpensive, Sunday roast lamb was the taste of childhood for many an Australian upbringing. It certainly was for mine. And no matter how much I love the flavors of Louisiana, there are some things I’ll always be homesick for. That’s the lot of the immigrant, no matter how good the food is wherever he eventually lands.
I hope you enjoy this annual cuisine issue of ours, and the many flavors it brings within reach. From row 54 far above the South Pacific, I wish you bon appetit.
