Quote de jour
"The trouble with eating poutine is that three or four days later you're hungry again."
                                                                                                                            L.M.Wilde

Poutine? Isn't that the former Russian president, you ask. No, That's Putin. My quest had nothing to do with politics or corruption, unless you think greasy food is a sin. My mission was to find the ultimate Quebecois comfort food on a recent trip to Montreal, Canada. Poutine is a fast food dish of French fries and cheese curds topped with gravy. I know this gooey mess may not sound appealing but it is, if done right. Poutine is all about texture. The fries must be crispy but soft in the center. The gravy should be ideally brown, silky and thick. The Cheese curds must be fresh cheddar curds, half melted but not completely runny. As a kid growing in Montreal, I used to call them squeaky cheese because the curds 'squeaked' against the teeth when chewed.

To be honest, my quest was as much about capturing a sliver of childhood memories as it was about foodie finds.
I was born in Montreal but left as a young adult in 1980 with a bitter taste in my mouth. Tensions between English and French speaking citizens escalated into violence. The politics turned ugly and a mass exodus of English speaking Montrealers took place between 1976 and 1980. Like many others, I fled to Toronto vowing never to return. In the past twenty eight years I've been back three times. The last time was fifteen years ago. I wanted to re-frame the past. I wanted to fall back in love with one of the world's most beautiful cities, and I did.

Armed with names of choice poutine places found on Chowhound.com http://www.chowhound.com I thought my quest would be a piece of cake but it proved more elusive. Sure, almost every corner had a McDonald's or Burger King selling poutine but I didn't come all this way for frozen, mass produced crap.  A few primo choices were restaurants in Le Plateau, a hip neighborhood dotted with restaurants, bars and funky shops. A kind of West Village with a French accent. The restos with arguably the best poutine included Patati Patata, Lafleur, La Belle Province and La Banquise where The Travel Channel's Anthony Bourdain tasted his first poutine to rave reviews.http://www.anthonybourdain.net. I was not so lucky. Every time we found ourselves in Le Plateau, the agenda changed. A re-union dinner with old friends required more sophisticated cuisine. My husband, a vegetarian expressed no interest. My teenaged stepkids thought poutine sounded like snot on fries.

Undeterred, I felt optimistic on a walking tour of Old Montreal. I held in my hands, along with a map, a name and address of a perfect greasy spoon with good poutine. We arrived but the place no longer existed. Famished, we ended up at a touristy, waterfront fast food mall. Not auspicious but I was low blood sugar desperate. I waved my arms in victory, "Poutine!" I cheered and marched into line. This was not the poutine of my dreams. "You can taste it to see if you like it," the counter girl said. I picked up one anemic fry, covered in unmelted cheese and gravy. The fry was half frozen. "The gravy will warm it up," she volunteered. Hell couldn't warm it up. I moaned my disappointment so loudly, other customers in line snickered. I settled for plain fries.

With my optimism flagging I said, "We have to find some poutine soon. We're leaving tommorrow."
"Poutine, poutine, poutine. Enough already," my hubby and the kids said. We decided to walk back to our hotel downtown via the financial district and trudged up Beaver hall, a steep hill. According to my list, there was a poutine place there but I didn't have an exact address. On the crest, like a desert mirage, I spotted it. The mother of greasy spoons and purveyor of topnotch poutine, Chien Chaud Victoire or Victory Hot Dog in French. I found a fresh burst of energy and raced towards the building. Three little words broke my heart. Closed on Sunday. I pressed my nose against the glass. I could almost smell the greasy goodness. So close and yet so far. The restaurant looked untouched by time. A picture perfect greasy spoon circa 1940. Nothing but the prices on the wall menu had changed.


The next morning, we checked out of our hotel and headed straight to, you guessed it, Chien Chaud Victoire. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. By 11:15 a line of customers snaked outside the divey exterior. I happily waited my turn, watching the counter men and one woman perform their grill magic with humor and surgical precision. One doled out fries into plain paper bags, one flipped burgers and toasted buns and last one assembled the poutines, one gravy ladle at a time.

I snatched my paper bag and cradled it as if it were from Tiffany's. We had a long seven hour car ride back to New York but I didn't mind. I tasted victory. The fresh cut fries, not too thick or thin, were crispy and golden. They were the fries of my youth. Exactly as I remembered them from roadside stand on drives to the Laurentian mountains or after skating at Beaver Lake on the mountain smack in the middle of Montreal. Who says you can never go home again? The cheddar cheese curds were squeaky fresh and melted correctly. The meaty and peppery gravy had just the right amount of salt to bring out the flavors. Gradually, the crisp fries grew soggy with cheese and gravy. At first I used the plastic fork but then switched to fingers and slowly made my way through the bowl until the last gravy soaked fry passed my smilng lips. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the obscene amount of calories, cholesterol and trans-fats ingested. My rational? I felt sated until arriving back home in New York that evening.

Poutine: $4.75
Childhood memories: priceless

My lucky day. Not one drop of gravy spilled on my white jeans.