The Poutine That Broke My Back

On Tuesday I pulled a muscle in my back while dragging the canoe out of the water on Fourth Lake in order to try a local restaurant’s poutine. I never got to try the poutine, because it turned out the restaurant was closed.

That meant I spent much of Wednesday recovering. There was stretching. There was ibuprofen. There was a lot of complaining and groaning. But there was resting. Actually, the resting led to napping. And when I awoke, I found the rental house mostly empty.

Fortunately, one human was left behind just in case of emergency. She told me that the rest of our crew went across the river to get some poutine.

Come on! Talk about adding insult to injury, but I may have gotten the last laugh.

Originally, I was enthusiastic about the poutine across the way for a couple of reasons. For starters, we’re closer to Canada up here, so that’s encouraging. But also the restaurant had an entire poutine section of the menu.

But it turns out, once again, that not all “poutine” is Poutine.

My friends and family, who abandoned me in my recovery to get the object of my quest for themselves, were treated to little more than gravy fries covered with a layer of melted cheese. Now granted, the melted cheese looked gorgeously caramelized as if it was placed under a broiler prior to being served.

Still, that ain’t Poutine. That’s barely even disco fries. Quite frankly, I’m not entirely sure what to call it.

I was told it was delicious. And I have no doubt that it was. Who can fault the combination of fried potatoes, gravy, and broiled cheese? The lactose intolerant, the gluten free, and those with gallbladder problems, sure.

Thankfully, for as many maladies that I’ve got, I suffer from none of those. Gravy remains my favorite food group.

Anyhow, it seems as if something really needs to be done with the misappropriation of the word “poutine.” It’s getting to the levels of Cuban Sandwich abuse. Seriously, isn’t there someone in Canada who is responsible for protecting the name of this national treasure around the world?

I mean, we’ve agreed not to call sparkling wine, “Champagne.” Poutine should absolutely get some kind of protected designation. At the very least, it should only be allowed on dishes made of french fries, gravy, and cheese curds. Although I am sure the purists out there would demand that for something to actually be called poutine, the cheese curds would need to squeak between the teeth.

For a well prepared version of the classic, I would readily brave grievous bodily injury. That would be a meal worthy of selling out your injured friend. But I can’t believe I traversed a windy lake with a novice teenaged canoer for nothing more than disco fries.

There ought to be a law.