I’m all about countries having their native dishes, and those dishes being a bit…unique. One of those batshit Scandinavian counties has rotten fish as a national dish, and another has half a boiled goat’s head. Those aren’t the first things that I’m going to be reaching for at the international buffet, but whatever, its traditional food from a place that didn’t have a whole lot of options when it came to food. But, there are always exceptions to every rule, especially when the food dates back less than half a century.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the gastronomical abomination from Canada, our neighbor to the north – poutine.


Let’s just take a look at what we have there. First up, pomme frites, then cheese curds from some flavorless white cheese, and all of that is topped off with – and God help me I wish I was making this up – “brown” gravy. That’s right, there isn’t a specific name or any other descriptor attached to this. It is just “brown”. In much the same way blue has become a flavor in the US, brown is a flavor north of the border.

Can you just imagine that? Oh, excuse me, can you pass the brown? My poutine is a little bit light on the brown. Wow, this brown tastes amazing.  Gggghhhhhyyyeeecccchhhh. My skin crawls just thinking about it.

And then you’ve got the cheese curds, which are akin to that bland string cheese stuff, only, you know…squishy. Sort of like chewing on cheese silly putty. But, that’s fine since it melts into this stringy consistency! Unless, of course, it isn’t prepared correctly or God forbid, you let the fucking thing cool down enough so the cheese re-solidifies after the frites have gone soft from the “brown”.

When that happens, you end up with something like this:


Canada, I’ve never really had a problem with you. Sometimes decent things come out of you, and you seem to have your head on straight when it comes to drug policy and healthcare. But this is really something unconscionable. I mean, yes, we might be killing brown people for sport, but you fuckers make poutine and that is truly unforgivable. Hell, this stuff is like something you’d find in a cookbook from the early 60s. Modern cooking killed those bloated, inoffensive dishes like a back alley doctor kills teenage pregnancies with a rusty coat-hanger. But no, you’ve got to be some crazed baby woman that dresses up her aborted fetus in baby clothes and carries it around talking about how its going to go to college one day and marry such a pretty girl. Frankly its just a bit sad.