We landed in San Francisco and looked forward to our 30-hour layover. It was the captain’s last flight and he was ready to celebrate.
“Drinks are on me,” he exclaimed.
Needless to say, the whole 747 crew of 17 showed up. The drinks at the hotel bar flowed fast and furious.
The captain tapped his wine glass with his spoon to get everyone’s attention. “The dinner is also on me and I have reserved the back section of a nearby restaurant. I have to warn you, though, the place is called the Stinky Rose and their motto is, ‘If you don’t like garlic, go home!’ And they aren’t joking.”
I don’t think everyone was overly thrilled with the garlic part, but when the word “free” pops up, airline employees are sure to go.
We arrived, and sure enough, their motto was in big bold letters on the front awning, along with the many garlic ornaments that decorated every wall and doorway. The menu was 98% garlic dishes and 2% non-garlic, which were for the weak-hearted. I didn’t know what the big deal was at the time. Garlic was supposed to be good for the heart and usually spiced up a meal. Sure, a little bad breath was certain to follow, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone that night.
We all started out with the garlic schnapps and an appetizer called “Bagna Calda” (pure roasted garlic with pita bread for dipping). The company and conversation was merry and the meal was delicious. We sang “Jolly Good Fellow” to the captain and he made a nice “goodbye, it’s been a great thirty-five years” speech. We all tried the garlic ice cream and then faded back to our hotel rooms.
I was tired and drifted off into what I thought would be a long layover slumber. Ten trips to the bathroom to brush my teeth, eight hours of the most demented and bizarre dreams later, I began to realize some of the consequences of garlic feasting.
I boarded the airport crew bus in the morning and noticed everyone looked like they had a hangover. Nobody had slept well and the overwhelming smell of garlic hovered over our seats. Of course, the bus we were taking to the airport had us all packed in tightly.
The captain broke the silence. “I guess we overdid the garlic last night, huh?” Weak laughter rumbled through the bus.
Liz, a petite young flight attendant, remarked, “Just please, nobody fart!” The laughter got louder.
We boarded the flight and could not escape the garlic cloud. The ground staff noticed and the passengers mentioned it every chance they could. I went into the cockpit and all three pilots had tissues stuck up their nostrils.
I went to the back galley after the service, of which we had served Garlic Chicken, and read the newspaper. A cross of the legs and a rumble from the stomach was all my bottom needed to have an accidental deflation. Which was very unfortunate because a little went a very long way. My first thought was to leave, but that would mean walking by Liz. I was trapped as she approached me. I started to sweat, which brought more garlic to the air as I prepared to apologize.
Liz leaned over and whispered, “Sorry about that, I let that one slip out by accident.” She blushed as we laughed.
Well, the captain got what he wanted, an unforgettable layover. It took me the better part of a year to even consider garlic again. Don’t get me wrong; I wholly endorse garlic and the restaurant. Just not before a long flight and, of course, always in moderation.
