The ship has a small wine list, which the passengers scrutinize into the waning days of the voyage as if this were La Tour d’Argent rather than an aging Soviet oceanographic vessel. There is a system where you can buy a bottle of wine that gets labeled with your cabin number and brought down for you at dinner by the lecturer on cetacean biology, or more satisfyingly (since he’s French) the ship’s expert on birds.
Antarctica, the only continent without a Michelin star, has never been a destination for fine dining. We've all been to the historic huts and seen the ghastly parade of canned Edwardian organ meats, probably no less indedible after a hundred winters on the ice than they were back in 1907. The culinary history of the continent (entertainingly laid out in a book called Hoosh) is one of suffering and deprivation.