Poutine: A meal? or a form of assisted suicide?
Last night, I went out to eat at
Frite Alors!, a french fry restaurant in Montreal. Yes, a french fry restaurant. I was chowing with Mikol, who has a bunch of in-laws in Montreal, and has been here a few times, so he knows the drill.
Mikol told me about
Poutine, which I guess basically means "mess"... which is fairly accurate: fries; gravy; cheese curd. That's it. I mean, you could order it with a bunch of other stuff, but I thought I would go native.
First off, I have to say, this shit is
tastey. I can see why this is a "fast food staple," It is probably fab hangover food. That said, it certainly hits you hard. When the waitress asked me what size I wanted, I hesitated. She illustrated the difference in scale by holding up the two bowls,
petite and
grand. My initial thought was grand. I mean, I was hungry. I should have taken heed of the conceptual weight she was giving le petite; she held the smallish bowl as if it had some serious heft, clearly she was warning me.
I let my hunger get the best of me and succumbed to the grand.
It is 2:30 now the followign day. The greasey curds are still churning in my belly.
A word for travelers: stick with the small. You will not regret it.
