Texans in Canada, Part 5

Oh the shame. Image by MPD01605 via Flickr

I'm going to confidently lay out a scenario for you that has not nor will ever occur in human history:

A family piles into their car with rumbling tummies. They all buckle in, the engine starts, and the wife and two kids look to Dad, itching for the question they can't wait to answer. The father turns his head slightly and asks, "What does everyone feel like for dinner?" Then, with unbridled enthusiasm, his wife and children collectively scream, "Canadian!"

Canadian food is not a type of cuisine. There are quirky food items that may exclusively be Canadian, but having ketchup flavored potato chips doesn't establish an ethnic flavoring you teach in culinary college.

There are alternate universe foods here, where names are confusing and flavors even more so. The "Smarties" we all know and love are actually their "M&Ms," and they are NOT a suitable replacement. Pickles have an off taste that I can't properly describe due to my gag reflex hindering my speaking ability. Somehow the beloved Colonel's secret recipe has been tainted. I suppose one or more of the 11 herbs and spices are not available naturally here or through import agreements, though I can't imagine trade relationships being established for any other reasons. What the hell is NAFTA for if not to protect KFC's integrity across North America?

Finding good Mexican food here is a continued search for us, sampling whitened down Mexican dishes (or pale comparisons) at various restaurants offering their versions of tacos and burritos. Our trek is organized, crossing off failed attempts at venues in widening concentric circles using our house as ground cero. Our last effort took us about 30 kilometers out, where cheeseburgers were also on the menu, their salsa was sub par, and they made no attempt at proper queso. I cried in my weak margarita. The problem really is that Mexicans are running for the wrong border. If Canadian officials were to taste real Mexican food, I'm sure they would offer citizenship to all immigrants bearing home made tamales.

The one saving grace Canada has in establishing themselves in the competitive cookhouse lies in a dish called poutine. It's simple and sounds like nothing special, but a first taste reveals an elegant delight to my taste buds and a welcome greeting from my arteries. It is fries, brown gravy, and cheese curds, and it is brilliant. It's so brilliant and so unhealthy that I don't understand why Americans aren't already offering an oversized and overcheesed version in fast food chains nationwide. Canadians aren't shying away from offering crazy variations of poutine though. They've got lobster poutine, filet mignon poutine, and apparently a Mexican poutine, covered in carne asada, guacamole, sour cream, cheese, and pico de gallo. Maybe I won't find quality enchiladas here in Canada, but I can take comfort in knowing this Mexican poutine awaits me. I'm gassing up my new car right now and making a preemptive appointment with my cardiologist.

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