I am engaged in a search for good poutine. I’m not sure what initiated this, but I know when it hit me, the hunger. It was in Boston, a few months ago. Perhaps it was triggered when I crossed a certain latitude. All I know is, I wanted poutine.
We found a bar called Bukowski’s, which served cheeseburgers topped with peanut butter and something called “poutine tater tots.” They were good, but they did not sate my appetite, they merely softened it.
I did a test at work the other day. I asked each of my colleagues if they knew what poutine was. Only one of them had even a rough idea. Two of them thought the word might violate HR policy.
There are, apparently, a few places in NYC that claim to serve poutine. Pommes Frittes on the Lower East Side is in my crosshairs. Today might be the day.
If they can’t get the job done, I may just be going to Canada.