Trafalgar, Agincourt, The Nile, Waterloo… these events should stir the heart of any Englishman. And yet, there can be no debate that the French have inflicted upon us a total defeat on the battlefield of the vending machine.
I recently spent a month living in Paris completing my type rating for my first job as an airline pilot. Part of the joy of this career is getting to spend an exorbitant amount of time in industrial units late at night waiting for the preceding crew (who are almost always Italians) to exit the simulator. It was during this time that I first became aquatinted with the French Vending Machine.
I should perhaps start with the coffee. For 50 cents you can buy a coffee that tastes better than almost anything I’ve ever drunk in the UK. Once you’ve whet your appetite with the coffee, take a look inside the vending machine itself. You can imagine my shock dear reader when, the first time I did this, I was not met with the familiar packet of stale quavers and a twix. No monsieur! Instead there were sandwiches, delicious caesar salads and perhaps most amazingly of all; a slice of cake.
For four euros, you could have a veritable feast delivered to you. Most remarkably of all was the absence of crippling guilt felt shortly after eating anything out of a British vending machine. I had no cold sweats or sleepless nights worrying how I could explain my selection to the aeromedical examiner.
So, I didn’t just return from Paris with a fresh ATR type rating, a raging cough, a newfound appreciation of retreat and a silly hat. I still got all those things, but I will forever more be espousing the virtues of the French vending machine to anyone who is unlucky enough to have to listen!
Yours Sincerely,
Joe Theato
Theato 
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