The Best Poutine
During my sophomore year of high school, I went to Canada with my mom. We had hit that point in Spring where the sound of rain hitting the roof became as natural as breathing. The rain blurred the days together. One of those mornings, my mom knocked on my bedroom door.
“Let’s go on a trip,” she said, her eyes bright with excitement as she leaned on the doorframe.
“A trip?” I asked, surprised.
“Yeah, to Canada maybe!” She smiled. “It’ll be fun. We need a change of scenery.”
I was the one who chose Montreal, looking back I wasn’t really sure why. I guess I liked the idea of it, with the French and cobblestone streets, it seemed like you were somewhere in Europe. Which in truth, seems a bit overrated, but it is a city unlike anywhere I have ever been. Buying plane tickets to a random destination and actually following through felt like one of those experiences you were supposed to have at least once—an act of spontaneity. So my mom and I made it ours.
We arrived in Vancouver on August twenty-third, where we had a short layover before landing in Montreal. As we walked through the airport, I caught sight of a man wearing a hat that read “Make Calgary Great Again.” I had to do a double take, squinting to make sure I’d read it right. “So this is Canada,” I thought, laughing under my breath. It felt ironic, given how often Canadians poke fun at Americans—it seemed like their humor had a way of circling back. By the time we reached Montreal, it was pitch black. The air was thick and humid as we climbed into the cab, the air that clings to your skin and makes everything feel heavy. The driver greeted us in French, and my mom responded with a hesitant smile. My mom didn’t speak French, but she still tried to engage with his dialogue. She nodded, offering a mix of “Oui” and “Merci”. I tried not to laugh as she powered through it, clearly out of her comfort zone, but determined to keep up.
The apartment we rented was small but cozy, even considering it was on the thirty-seventh floor of the building with a view that stretched over the city. The first morning was slow and unhurried. We didn’t have an agenda, just a vague idea of exploring. My mom let me lead, so I picked streets at random, letting my curiosity guide us. The old buildings stood tall, ivy creeping up the walls in places and wrought-iron balconies popped out above the streets, some filled with flowers, others weathered and empty. We walked for hours, stopping when something caught our attention. By late afternoon, our feet ached, and we realized we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I guided us to a restaurant I’d found in my research, a place that claimed to have the best poutine in the city. The restaurant was sleek and modern, but the space felt claustrophobic, with too many people crammed into too little room. It felt more like a trendy tourist spot than a hidden gem. The menu was overwhelming. Poutine with every topping imaginable—from pulled pork to truffle oil. I panicked and picked a veggie option, which turned out to be a strange mix of sweet potato fries and mushroom gravy that didn’t quite work.
After the underwhelming poutine experience at the restaurant, we decided to give it another shot the next day at a dimly lit bar. It felt promising at first, the kind of place that serves classic comfort food. When our plates arrived, I was disappointed. The fries were limp, drowning in thin gravy that looked more like watered down broth. The cheese curds looked rubbery, as though they had been sitting out. It was the kind of thing that probably would’ve tasted amazing to someone drunk at a bar at 2 am, but to me, it was just soggy fries and gravy. I guess we should’ve had lower expectations considering it was a bar and poutine is classic bar food. Each time we sat down to try a new poutine, I felt like I was chasing something that didn’t exist, hoping that this time, I would finally find the one that would live up to its reputation. But each plate came out, and with it, another wave of disappointment.
After a week of museums, markets, and the usual tourist hustle, we found ourselves worn out. We’d seen all the sights, tried many recommended places, and still hadn’t found that perfect bite of poutine. So, on the last night, we ended up at McDonald’s, more as a joke than serious. The golden arches glowed from the sign above our heads. When the poutine arrived in its little cardboard box, we weren’t expecting much. But to our surprise, it was exactly what we needed. The fries were crisp, the gravy rich, and the cheese curds still intact. It wasn’t gourmet, nor was I claiming it to be the ‘best’ poutine in Montreal, but it was simple and comforting. That’s exactly what poutine should be. It can be fancy with many toppings, but at the end of the day, it’s meant to be something filling and warm that brings people together.