Reading about Montreal, I was surprised to find that most residents would rather gripe about the snow on the sidewalk than the formerly all consuming effort at secession (the whole French-speaking thing). I now see why. Sidewalks are sheets of ice trapping pools of slushy water. Fashionable shoes are out, giant polar-expedition boots are in. I barely kept my feet dry in my Gortex shoes.
This is a price I’d happily pay for a city that offers so much in every other vital area. Namely, the food is delicious, the local beer is great, and the women are hot. Add in the symphony of multi-lingualism and French-inspired bakeries and cafes, and you’ve got a city that I could be very happy in. Did I mention the beautiful women? Just wanted to be sure.
Last night I forayed out for a meal of Poutine at the 24-hour Le Banquise. The Recipe for poutine is straightforward; french fries doused in gravy topped with warm cheese curd. Variations add anything else you might find on a pizza, and as this is a Francophile area, you can even find poutine with foie-grass. I started with Poutine Vege, which features onions, mushrooms and peppers, which I drank with a well-rounded amber beer. After an hour, my taste buds asked me to indulge again, though my stomach protested half way through. Hint – one poutine is enough, especially for Virgins. I’m not too sure if it was the second plate or the cafe from earlier in the day, but I lay awake in my youth hostel for several hours after arriving home. C’est la vie.
Picture is of the Poutine Classic, before I devoured it.
I confess I prefer the English fries (chips) doused with Vinegar, though Poutine ties with Edinburgh’s chips and sauce.
