On my short Braniff journey, I neglected to mention this: The Branwich (left).In their heyday, Braniff were so successful in pretty much anything, they created their own glazed meaty branded sandwich, the Branwich. Yes, way.
If you flew Braniff, you got real food. Seventies real, anyway, which meant chunky hunks of moo, four miles of pastry, a clutch of sweaty onions and minimal greens. They prided themselves on having great chefs and had a specific ad campaign devoted solely to spreading the word about, 'the finest food you could ever get in the air.' Apparently the passengers totally dug it.
I'd love to have been in the marketing meeting which preceded the creation of the Branwich:
'Everything is branded, sir. The forks. The pilot's face. He even smiles in the shape of a dove. There's no room for anything else.'
'What about the disposable produce, Chuck? The goddam food? Let's have them taste Braniff. Let's imprint our logo on their frikkin' intestines. They'll be digesting our brand. It'll be in the very fibres of their being. Their fingertips, heart and soul. They will shit Braniff, Chuck. They will be shitting the best airline in existence. They'll be shitting 30,000 feet of success, Chuck. They won't even want to flush. I'll tell you what I want, Chuck. I want a branded sandwich. Something greasy that slides down nicely like a sexy stew on a popped evacuation chute. I hereby announce the creation of the Branwich.'
'...'
'Don't you "..." me.'
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