There’s a little gem (dive) at 14 Bromfield St. in Boston called The SideBar. It’s near Silvertone, The Beantown Pub, The Orpheum, etc. It’s famous for it’s cheap wings, immaculate bathrooms, courteous service, $6 pitchers and now a little slice of endangered Canadian cuisine: Poutine.
I stopped in at The SideBar on my way home from work tonight to help send off a friend of mine who’s moving to Colorado (Good luck, Dan!). I love the food there, and as plate after plate of cheese fries kept flying out of the kitchen I asked Ronnie, one of the owners, if he’d ever heard of Poutine.
“Poo-what? Jesus.” he replied. I explained to him that it was French-Canadian in origin, and very popular North of the border. “Hell, you can even get it at Wendy’s up there.” I said. “Well what the hell is it?” he asked. “Sounds f*cking disgusting!”
“Not as f*cking disgusting as it looks.” I assured him.
In a nutshell, Poutine is a bowl of fries, cheese and gravy. Where are you going? You should really hear me out on this. It’s been getting a lot of press in the U.S.A. recently (even Disney characters are getting in on the action) and I told Ronnie his could be the first bar in Boston to serve it. He could help spearhead the Canadian invasion which you should have already realized is imminent by now. Jason Priestly. Shatner. I don’t even need to go any further.
I asked him if he had any gravy in the back. He said he didn’t, but then disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes – obviously contemplating something. Obvious only because he had ceased swearing for 45 seconds. He then walked back behind the bar to serve some new customers who probably thought they had already heard every possible use of the ‘F’ word known to man before walking through the front door.
Then Ronnie went back into the kitchen and returned with an enormous bowl of what was quite possibly the most beautiful incarnation of Poutine I have ever seen in my life. He laid it out in front of me and my friends and slammed a fistful of forks down onto the bar. We dug in – cheese and gravy flying everywhere. “This is f*cking good, dude.” Ronnie admitted.
I’ll spare you the complete history, but Canadians in general – and especially the French – have weird eating habits. I bet before reading this, you thought our national cuisine consisted of nothing but tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs and Kraft Dinner. And you were right.
But we have our proud Poutine too, and now an establishment in Boston where it can be enjoyed. Ronnie and the other owner Sebby, are intrigued – but still reluctant. I implore everyone to a) visit the almighty SideBar the next time you’re in the area and b) Ask Ronnie or Sebby to make you some Poutine! This could catch on. But I need your help, Boston. And some Alkaseltzer. And definitely not in that order.
– “What do I owe you for dinner, Ronnie?”
– “Nothing. You’re all set.”
– “Well I should hope so, since you f*cking ate it all.”
– “Get out.”
F’ing Canadians…. they’re so dumb.
The real origins of Poutine….
Way back before the Civil War, George W (and I don’t mean Bush) used to like to visit his neighbors from the north. He heard a rumor that Canadians had the best poontang. He decided to take a trip up to Montreal and experience this for himself.
After a week or so on horseback, eating nothing but corn on the cob, George found himself feeling a bit randy and his mouth hurt. He made it to Montreal and decided he would stop at the first inn he came to… Ye Olde Tucker Inn….(shut it I’m not done)and get some whiskey to help eleviate the pain in his gums from his false teeth grinding on them. Seems corn isn’t the best thing to be eating when your teeth are made of wood…anyway, he asks the bartender where he can get some poontang only because of his oral issue and his Boston accent, it came out “pountine”. The Bar tender looked at him funny and said poutine? I don’t know what that is. So George said, no, I said poontang, I want some poontang you stupid Canadian! Again, the bartender gives him a puzzled look and says, sorry, I still don’t know what you’re taling about then asks “can you spell it?” So George spells out P-O-O-N-T-A-N-G! Light dawns on marble head so to speak and finally the bar tender says Oh…you want POONTANG…huh, I still don’t know what you mean. So George says…never mind, just give me some french fries and gravy..oh, and throw some cheese on it too….
And that my friends is where poutine really came from.
Hooray! Finally I can puke up the same stuff I ate drunkenly the night before in Boston as I have been in Montreal for decades. I’ll take poutine over poontang any night!
Anti-Canadian rants on my blog already. And it’s only been live for 3 weeks. Listen. For every Barenaked Ladies, there’s a Tragically Hip. For every Jason Priestly, there’s a Phil Hartman. For every Margaret Atwood, there’s a Farley Mowat. For every Degrassi Jr. High, there’s a Trailer Park Boys.
Target your agression. Start with Quebec.
Jason Priestly is a freakin stud. Believe it.
Shut up Dave. They have fries with cheese and gravy everywhere from Brigham’s to Faneuil Hall. Get over it.
No they don’t. And here’s an email Abby sent me earlier. She’s just bitter:
“NICE! I can’t believe that you actually babbled for so long about poutine (both at the bar and on the blog), yet even tho I WAS THERE, ATE THAT, AND TOOK THE PICTURES, i didn’t even get one mention in your story. Its not like there were a ton of people there, there were only four. Shit, you could have at least hit reply and typed “thanks”, when i sent the pictures… This is what we would file under “dickhead”.
I’m gonna go cry now.”
Why are we friends??
Dave – don’t be RiDICKulus – they have poutine at the Beantown Pub and they have had it there forever!