Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Poutine
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
At my barber shop, a shaggy-haired patron in need of a haircut, drills his voice into my head. His humble bragging, a few decibels too loud, forces everyone in the place to know that he is just back from a European holiday. He insists that culinary traditions are an intrinsic part of travel. Eating together as a family, he proclaims, is a holiday bonding experience.
For my part, I can enjoy my victuals in a group, with friends or family, in a restaurant, at my house, at a business event or simply alone. Eating is love, and I love eating.
My children, Brittany and Ben—active with school, friends, sports, their lives and their own gluttony—are on holiday with me in Quebec City. A father-with-kids vacation. We are putting the eating-and-bonding theory to the test.
At the moment we are at La Buche, a restaurant featuring the traditional cuisine of Quebec. Rustic décor is cluttered with snowshoes, two-man tree saws, checkered tablecloths, wild animal skins, wooden floors and stone masonry.
To lard up before braving the winter cold, I am gobbling down the ‘Lumberjack’ casserole. In a hot cast-iron skillet, there are layers of calories: eggs sunny side up, maple cured bacon, diced ham, cubed sausage, mushrooms, béchamel sauce, fried potatoes, wilted spinach, cheese curds. Two slices of one-inch-thick toast. Coffee.
Between mouthfuls, our breakfast conversation is a Baptist church Sunday call and response. To whatever I say, Ben and Brittany grimace with rhythmic, well-practiced zeal, “Dad, just eat, OK?”
Last night, we dined at Sagamité restaurant which reimagines First Nations gastronomy. Our starters were venison puff pastries with rhubarb chutney, rice, greens. Next, a hearty broth filled with the “three sisters”—corn, beans, squash.
The house specialty Yatista—“fire” in the language of the Wendat tribe—fulfills my annual quota for red meat. Chunks of sizzling venison, elk and bison dangle on metal hooks from on a teepee-like, foot-high tripod in the center of the table. The waiter douses the meat in a Jack Daniels concoction which ignites into a flaming food drama.
Four dipping sauces multiply the taste options: mustard, sweet mayonnaise, garlic aioli and Russian dressing. The vegetable plate is composed of indigenous dietary staples: glazed carrots, beets, puréed squash and a mouth-filling, mouth-watering cheese-infused potato cake.
To start a mealtime conversation, I ask my kids’ opinion on a matter of modern etiquette. When Siri’s she/he/it/they/them provides the daily weather forecast, should I say thank you? I’ll skip sharing their views on the matter.
Brittany, looking for something less fattening, orders a fish pasta. The al dente pasta comes loaded with chunks of scallop, lobster and prawns in a creamy white sauce. So much for calorie-counting. While Ben and I have a taste, she savors a succulent piece of bison.
On our last day, we cannot leave without trying the popular local comfort food Poutine. The recipe is French fries and cheddar cheese curds bathed in a brown gravy. Fresh ingredients made to taste like seven-day-old leftovers.
In unison, united—bonded, you could say—we come together as a family. Meh!
