"Clare," he called.
She turned with obvious irritation.
"There must be an error. I ordered the chef's tasting menu."
"That's what we have available."
"Could you check the manifest?"
"We've checked it."
"May I see the notation?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Passengers don't review crew documents."
"I'm not asking to review the manifest. I'm asking you to confirm my own order."
A pause settled over the aisle. Arthur lowered his fork. A woman across from Marcus put down her glass and watched.
"We prioritize based on availability and customer status," Clare said.
"My status is Platinum Elite."
"That doesn't guarantee everything you want."
"No," Marcus agreed. "But it should guarantee the service I was promised unless there is a legitimate reason it can't be provided."
Clare looked toward the galley as though searching for an audience that might approve of her impatience. "Sir, you're holding up service."
"I'm sitting in my seat."
"And questioning everything I do."
Marcus turned the sandwich over. That was when he noticed the green patches beneath the upper slice. He lifted the bread farther. The smell confirmed it: a sour, damp odor that did not belong anywhere near a passenger's meal.
He felt a flash of disbelief, followed by something colder. He photographed the sandwich from several angles with his phone, capturing the visible spots and the flight information displayed on his entertainment screen behind the tray. Then he gently set the bread back down.
"Please don't serve this to anyone else," he said. "It is moldy."
Clare leaned down as though examining a child's drawing. "I don't see anything wrong."
"There are green spots under the top slice."
"Perhaps it's seasoning."
"Bread mold isn't seasoning."
She folded her arms. "If you're unhappy, you can submit feedback after the flight."
Marcus held her gaze. "I would like the purser to come here. And I would like this meal preserved rather than discarded."
Clare's expression changed. He had named two things that might turn an easy dismissal into a documented incident.
"You're making a great deal out of a sandwich."
"I'm making a reasonable request about spoiled food."
"Some people are never satisfied."
She left before he could reply. Marcus did not touch the sandwich again. He placed his phone beside it and noted the time, the flight number, the seat, and the order confirmation. He felt the instinctive urge to prove that he had done nothing wrong, and resented having to spend energy on a fact that should have been obvious.
Across the aisle, Arthur pushed his unfinished salmon away.
"You shouldn't have to eat that," he said.
"I don't intend to."
"Do you want mine?"
The offer surprised Marcus. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it: an elderly stranger offering half a fish dinner while a profitable airline failed to deliver a paid service.
"That's kind of you. But I want them to address what happened."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Then I'll sit with you until they do."