Price Club has samples, rows and rows of endless samples. Itching to try the latest frozen chicken burrito or those mini hot dogs that come in mini buns? How about some instant soup, ice-cream sandwiches, spaghetti sauce, or pork buns? It’s all there and it’s all free. The mind-boggling generosity even extends to second and third helpings. I have witnessed people hanging around the Mrs. Fields sample table far longer than it takes to actually chew one and walk away. These anonymous people who shamelessly eat their way through the store now have a face: my father’s.

“So what did you actually eat?” I inquired.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It all tasted the same.”

Under normal circumstances, my father would not eat a frozen Western-style fish enchilada, but give him a free sample and all rules of judgment and taste are suspended. The same goes for airline food. Once he finishes his own tray, he is more than happy to finish ours. “You’re not going to eat that?” he asks, referring to whatever the rest of us have found to be inedible. “Give it to me.” My father is every flight attendant’s dream, simplifying the stacking process by thoroughly emptying each tray.

A few years ago, my brother Farshid sent my parents on a firstclass vacation to Japan. They weren’t as impressed by Japan as they were by the food service in first class. My father did admit, though, that he felt ill after the flight. “I ate nonstop,” he said.

When my parents returned from their trip, they presented me with, among other gifts, fourteen mini jars of jam.

“What are these from?” I asked.

“Breakfast in the airplane,” my mother replied. “We each got two jars.”

“What about the other ten jars?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“Those are from the other passengers who didn’t want theirs.”

I envisioned the first-class passengers, spreading their cloth napkins on their laps, when suddenly, “Doo you vant deh jelly?” My mother, with her thick Middle Eastern accent, could just as easily have asked for their passports, which the passengers would have handed over gladly, just to get rid of her. It is fair to assume that by the time my parents shuffled off the airplane, their pockets laden with a bounty of wrapped sugar cubes and tiny bottles of ketchup, the entire cabin knew that my parents usually fly coach.

My parents’ hunting and gathering instincts are not limited to the freebies in first class; they also get their money’s worth in coach. My children know that a visit from their grandparents means a dozen packets of American Airlines peanuts. How do they get so many? My mother has a system. “I tell them that I’m visiting my grandkids and they love peanuts.” I assume that works better than telling the truth: “I’m paying $150 for this seat and I would like the equivalent in free food.”