My father was an engineer who worked abroad for much of my childhood. As much as I remember him being gone, I also recall the wild excitement of him coming home. He’d arrive at our house in the early morning, exhausted after an overnight flight, and my siblings and I would unceremoniously tear through his suitcase as soon as he walked through the door, searching for gifts.
The best presents were, in hindsight, clearly bought at the airport. Côte D’Or praline chocolates in the shape of an elephant. A Caran d’Ache set of coloring pencils, most likely purchased during a stopover in Zurich, gifted to my older brother. (As will feel familiar to anyone with an older sibling, I was banned from touching the pencils, let alone using them. I would creep into my brother’s room just to sneak a look at them, meticulously organized in their long metal tin featuring a stock photo of the Matterhorn.) My sister and I wore our matching pajamas—white with red stitching and a small, embroidered panda on the chest—until they were, quite literally, bursting at the seams.
Perhaps the most treasured item my dad brought home was a set of cutlery, evidently pocketed from an airplane, that I used throughout my childhood. Each squared brown-black handle had “Air France” embossed on it, and I remember the knife and spoon as satisfyingly round, the fork’s tines surprisingly sharp. Smaller than regular flatware, they were the perfect size for a child’s hands. They felt terribly chic, as if they were made just for me. I mourned the day my mum told me I was big enough to use adult cutlery, that the Air France set was just for little kids like my sister.
I recounted this anecdote to someone over dinner recently, whose response was simple: “You should buy them.” I’m not sure why it hadn’t occurred to me before; I had already gone looking for the chocolate elephants. Some cursory internet research unearthed multiple sets available on eBay. It also revealed institutional appreciation for the flatware—a knife, fork, and spoon set are now part of the Denver Art Museum’s architecture and design collection. They were devised by American industrial designer Raymond Loewy in 1976, the year Air France invited him and his studio to outfit the interiors of their Concorde. Loewy designed every detail of the supersonic aircraft’s interior, from the cabin architecture and lighting fixtures to the modernist meal tray and glassware. The cutlery handles, pleasantly balanced in the hand, were made of plastic to minimize the overall weight of the plane and its cargo. (When fuel costs as much as it does for supersonic flight, every milligram counts.) Loewy later noted that several hundred sets of flatware were taken as souvenirs during the first months of Concorde’s operation.
I followed my dinner companion’s good advice and bought a set. The cutlery was as satisfying to hold as I remembered. Thoughtful design endures, no matter how humble the object. I gave the knife, fork, and spoon to my sister for her birthday. I like to think that one day her son might use them, a gift from his aunt who left London to work in New York. Perhaps my purchase made up for my father’s original sin. Or perhaps his theft is excusable in this instance. After all, every good traveler comes home bearing gifts, no matter how humble.
Ella Christopherson is a writer and editor based in Brooklyn, New York.
