Delta Delivers on Its Embrace of Service

If you enjoy feeling like a schlub, I highly recommend flying to Milan during Men’s Fashion week. I dare you to enter Delta’s vast, business-class cabin without being overwhelmed by a sense of pudgy inadequacy. I instantly crumbled, becoming crushingly self-conscious, aware just how worn the elbow patches on my Harris tweed blazer had become. This bout of self-loathing was reinforced by a suspicion I had been left off the circulation list for the memo dictating the dress code as “boyband.”

All signs of austerity hinting at the faltering Italian economy had been banished amidst a frenzy of plunging V-neck T-shirts, buffed biceps, and waxed armpits. Derek Zoolander would have reveled in the luxe looks of this hair product heaven. The cabin could not have felt more disorientingly “Euro” if my fellow passengers had strolled onboard sporting crotch-hugging Speedos. Two colors appeared permissible: black and camo. One amped-up model resembling a young Warren Beatty promenaded around the cabin with a jaw so sculpted, Michelangelo’s David appeared weak-chinned in comparison. His hooded, sleeveless sweatshirt proclaimed, nonsensically, “Norfolk Virgin.”