In a recent issue of The New Yorker, Calvin Trillin tackled the topic of poutine, the Quebecois dish of french fries, cheese curds, and brown gravy.
To paraphrase the kids on the old Life cereal commercial with Mikey, "he liked it!"
Nothing against Mr. Trillin, a long-standing favorite food writer of mine, but I thought of it first.
No, not before the Canadians thought of it. I just thought of eating some before the New Yorker article appeared.
We're a long way from Montreal here in the SF Bay Area, so my hopes of sampling a poutine depended on pluck and determination. (Well, I could go to a local restaurant, I suppose; poutine is invading the lower 48 at an amazing pace.)
And my poutine would depend on gravy.
I made (as usual, and yes, I'm boasting) a fantastic turkey gravy for Thanksgiving. Local, except for the gluten-free flour I used to thicken it (which gave it a new-to-me glossy sheen).
Cranky made local french fries (he cooks them in a skillet with very little oil).
And our farmers market sells local cheese curds. Wow.
So how do you assemble it? You just dump it all together on a plate. The cheese softens in the heat, and the gravy drenches everything.
Was it authentic? I have no idea.
But it was so yummy (I had envisioned giving it a hold-your-nose polite taste) that I gobbled everything up and want to have it again, soon. Really, you don't have to be drunk to like it.
I'm writing a song. "If my butt don't fit through that door, blame Canada."