Poutine is a god-awful mess of french fries, gravy and fresh cheese curd that French-Canadians consume by the ton. The best authorities agree that you cannot get authentic poutine outside of Québec, let alone outside of Canada. (If you disagree with this assessment, you are, by definition, not one of the best authorities.)
Visitation Rights
He woke at ten to the thrum of an orchestra. When he had pulled on some clothes and staggered out to the front room, he found Laurie dancing to the Sleeping Beauty Waltz. She kicked and pranced from one end of the room to the other, her bird-like arms sweeping exuberantly from side to side. When she was done, he applauded and gave her a hug.
“Ew, Daddy, you stink,” she said, wrinkling her turned-up little nose.
He laughed sleepily. “I’ll get in the shower in a minute. Did you have breakfast?”
“There were some Pop-Tarts in the cupboard. Your toaster burned them a little. But I ate them anyway.”
“What do you want for your birthday lunch?” he asked.
She though for a second, then squealed, “Poutine! I want poutine, papa!” Her frizzy brown curls bounced as she jumped up and down.
“You sure?” he said. “You could have anything. Pizza, lasagna, stroganoff, blood pudding . . .”
Laurie had lost both her top front teeth in the past week, and now she stuck her tongue through the gap. “Yuck.”
“. . . liver-and-onions, split-pea soup,” he continued. “I’d even make you scrapple and scrambled eggs, honey.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t you want something you can’t get at home?” he asked weakly. “You can have poutine anytime you want back in Montreal, with your mom. You’re only in Philly a couple days out of the year. How about we go out for cheesesteak?”
She folded her arms. “I want poutine,” she said. “It’s my birthday.” Her pointed chin was set stubbornly.
“Okay,” he said. “I hope the grocery store has some really fresh cheese curd this time.”
