As many Canadians see it, the mention of Canada to a foreigner, particularly an American, instantly conjures up images of hockey players, Royal Canadian Mounted Policemen, lumberjacks, igloos, and, of course, canoes and moose.
The list goes on, but it does not include a national dish—unless you count maple syrup, which is customarily poured on something else, or the entire Tim Hortons doughnut chain. Canadians, of course, are hardly hostile to hockey players—when asked in surveys what makes them particularly proud of their country, they tend to name hockey, followed by multiculturalism which they envision as a lumpy stew rather than a melting pot or the national health-care system—but many of them resent being defined by icons.
I also wondered what it tasted like. The questions posed by connoisseurs in taking the measure of a poutine—Do the French fries and curds stand up to the assault of the gravy? Does that gravy taste like something that originated somewhere other than in a packet? Are the curds squeaky-fresh? Last spring, on a trip to Toronto, I decided to take the plunge. This was at a chip wagon that parks in front of City Hall. It was obvious, though, from the writings of the cognoscenti, that a true sampling of poutine would require a trip to Montreal.
That is how I came to be eating so much of it with Emily Birnbaum and her boyfriend, James Braithwaite, and their friend Richard Parks, and a revolving selection of special-guest eaters. It was a thirty-or-under crowd, the prime demographic for poutine-eating—possibly because young people are able to stay awake until the key poutine-consuming hours arrive.
We began that first night with an unembellished poutine at La Belle Province, a chain that, despite being a good distance from New York, appears to have retained the same interior-design team that gave us the Port Authority Bus Terminal. At Paul Patates, we ate Poutine Italienne, the most common variation on the theme; it is essentially spaghetti with tomato sauce, except that the spaghetti is French fries.
We ate the smoked-meat poutine at Main. At Maamm Bolduc, we ate Poutine Galvaude—poutine with chicken and peas. At Resto La Banquise, a twenty-four-hour operation that offers twenty-five varieties of poutine, we toyed with the idea of ordering a Poutine T-Rex or a Poutine Elvis but finally decided on a Poutine Kamikaze—merguez sausage, hot peppers, and Tabasco.
On the way to Au Pied de Cochon, a guest eater named Adam Leith Gollner, who has done some writing about poutine in Montreal, pointed out that Poutine Galvaude shows the culinary influence of Quebec Anglophones—cousins of people accustomed to menu items like Mushy Peas. Main is not by any means the only restaurant in Montreal that serves a poutine with smoked meat, a delicacy that originated, of course, with Eastern European Jewish immigrants.
In other words, poutine might be an appropriate national dish for a country that prides itself on lumpy multiculturalism—whatever impact it has on another point of pride, the national health-care system. It may not have been mere coincidence that Claudette had been nearly our final stop. It occurred to me that during my three days in Montreal we had eaten poutine with increasing gusto. Calvin Trillin , a staff writer, has contributed to The New Yorker since More: Pres.
George W. Flamos Peri Peri Chicken is opening locations in Lachenaie and Terrebonne in August and September, respectively, while Ontarians will be able to enjoy this unique cuisine in Mississauga and Kitchener in the fall, with more restaurants to open next year.
Courtesy of Thierry du Bois. As such, they seem to take comfort food to the next level with new offerings for hip urban folks such as signature cocktails, QR code menus, lots of exposed stone, and even a DJ spinning tunes, which made me feel fancy, indeed.
The experience began with a selection of tasty starters and dipping sauces. The mozzarella sticks were hot and melty enough for a decent cheese pull. Therese ordered the meatless chicken tenders, which were so good we'd already eaten half of them before taking this photo, oops. Their poutine was a stick-to-your-ribs creation served with crinkle-cut fries, squeaky curds, and a light gravy. And then I ordered more chicken wings what can I say?
I'm a wing-lover. At this point, my tummy was too full to try their signature dish so I can only assume their rotisserie chicken comes out of the oven as crisp and tender as their winged counterparts. By the end of the evening, I was overfed with food and filled with gratitude, so I ordered a shot and asked the bartenders to join me. Professional conduct prevented them from doing so but they graciously obliged me by shooting cranberry juice while I drank whiskey. Well, we've made it to another weekend in Montreal.
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Keep reading Show less. Courtesy of Flamos Peri Peri Chicken By all accounts, Montrealers love their Portuguese-style chicken, grilled to perfection and bathed in piri piri sauce, but set aside those presuppositions when it comes to the uniquely flavoured bird coming out of Flamos' kitchen.
Flamos Peri Peri Chicken. It's Wednesday afternoon, I've already had a few drinks, and I'm craving rotisserie chicken. Do you know what that means? Fun, sun and memories just waiting to be made. Play Boozy Mini Putt.
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