Science Explains Why In-Flight Airplane Meals Aren’t Ever Good

On long-haul flights at cruising altitudes, about half the air we breathe comes from the atmosphere in which the plane flies and the other half is filtered. In combination, the result is that — at 30,000 feet — the cabin air is extremely dry, with a humidity level estimated at some 12%.  To lend us a picture of what this means, that number is at the low end — the very low end — of the daytime atmospheric humidity in the Mojave Desert, which, depending on the season, hovers between 10% and 30%.  

Exactly as would happen on an extended camping trek in the Mojave, this monumental, rock-steady inflight dehydration over hours that humans spend in cabin air wrings every drop of necessary moisture from our nasal and bronchial passages. And that’s one of the top reasons that our closely intertwined senses of smell and taste change so radically as we fly.   

Actually, the news is worse than that: At in-flight altitudes, our senses of taste and smell simply diminish, and there’s not much we can do about that. We can taste some things, but it’s all shifted around and off-kilter. Our sense of salty and sweet tastes grow especially weak, which is a diplomatic way of saying that the food put before you by the airline is extra-salinated — to the tune of approximately 20% more salt (for a savory dish) and about that, or more, depending on the kitchen, in sugar for a dessert — so what you eat can punch through that increasingly lower taste-ceiling laid on you by the high, cold desert in which you are being mechanically flown.    

And in fact, there’s more: Because it’s not just the moveable desert at 30,000 feet that’s working against your nose and your palate. It’s also the air pressure and the unending 80-decibel-plus drone of the unavoidable noise of flight. Some families of tastes are sturdy enough to hold out, some not.   

Lufthansa commissioned Germany’s renowned Fraunhofer Institut to stage a taste-test trial in which the human subjects, the “in-flight diners,” so to speak, were put in cramped seats in a pressure chamber ratcheted down to mimic the extremely low air pressure at cruising altitude (30,000 feet). They were then fed Lufthansa fare while being bombarded with the 80-decibel drone of aircraft engines. To bring that extra dollop of authenticity to the diners, the Fraunhofer researchers arranged for the seats to vibrate so as to simulate the occasional moment of inflight turbulence.    

And what fine dinner that was in the hypobaric chamber! Remind anybody of that last dinner over the North Atlantic en route home to the States? Curiously, what the admirably thorough Fraunhofer researchers found was that the diners-under-duress only s.   

Left more or less intact were the tastes described as “bitter,” “sour,” and “spicy.” It’s worth noting here that, in separate tests of similar form, the one set of tastes that seem to perform with unusual sturdiness under the admittedly harsh inflight conditions seem to be what Japanese chefs would classify as the core, or umami tastes, in Japanese cuisine — namely, the deep, warm, soy-inflected sauces, yakitori, miso, et al. In fairness, that can also be because umami-palate dishes carry punched-up sodium levels by definition. Fascinatingly, tomato juice — as in, a Bloody Mary — is also apparently immune to the pressures of long-haul tastelessness.   

The tactic, then? When given the choice by the onboard menu, go for the spicy Mexican tortilla or the beef yakitori. They’re pretty much guaranteed to taste exactly as you would hope.  Otherwise, see if you can hit a Taco Bell or a really good sushi stand before you board and tote the stuff on.   

If none of that is possible, immunize yourself this way: Just eat whatever they put in front of you, wolf it down fast so that you’re certain you won’t taste it, and order up a raft of Bloody Marys to wash it all down.