This stuff’s so good, it’s inspired me to rewrite an old 2 Live Crew song.
My version’s called “HEY, WE WANT SOME POUTINE!”
(I don’t know how it’s really pronounced yet, but if you say poo-TEEN! then that works).
Royalty checks are sure to follow.
And I think I wanna open a poutine franchise in the U.S. We could call it “Poutine Time.”
I must append my ratings of all things Canada.
Hot dogs (with relish): very nice.
Burgers (with relish): not good at all.
The new greatest thing ever? It’s called Poutine. Sounds dirty, but it’s delicious!!!
For those to lazy to click, here’s what it is:
A French-Canadian staple, a dish of homemade french fries topped with white cheddar cheese curds and beef gravy. Generally served in a styrofoam container or carton.
I’ve just taken a picture of it. I’ll be posting it later.
When I was wandering / sitting at the Atlanta airport, I was making a concerted effort to observe and make notes in my Blackberry for FRT content for the next two weeks. I made one note that had slipped my mind, until now.
When you’re in the international concourse, you see a lot of things. You see different colors, sizes, genders, etc., and a vast majority are either hideous looking or eastern european (as in those ugly snaggle toothed communists we saw trying to tear down the wall in Berlin so they could get to a good dentist or plastic surgeon).
Anyway, after picking up my bag of Combos, water and some gum, I was walking to my gate and reading the destination cities off the gate signs before mine, when I saw a bunch of soldiers seated to my left at the Frankfurt gate.
“Ah.” I thought to myself. “Soldiers going to Frankfurt because we have bases near there.”
And just then, I looked harder to my left as I cleared the wall that divided the gate areas, and there they were.
Hotties. I don’t mean some pretty good looking women. I’m seeing them and thinking to myself “These women are so beautiful that I bet it hurts to look directly at them,” so I avoided making eye contact by staring at their tits.
There were also some older haggered women and Carl Lagerfeld-like doods being swarmed by people with digital recorders who I can only assume were fashion reporters. Holy crap! The fashion reporters!
Still, it was amazing. I was quite sure that these were actual fashion models or (better yet) calendar type models. But they weren’t all racked up with bolt-ons and collagen and botox. These were non-waify gorgeous international women. Oh, and the compliment of skinny gay doods circling like carp next to a seafood joint waiting for you to throw fries in the water didn’t make me doubt my belief either.
So I went ahead and found several reasons to walk back and forth, and was repeatedly shocked that there were this many nines and tens in one tiny area. Somewhere the ugly quotient was thru the roof, but it wasn’t here.
Anyway, I didn’t want to forget to tell you about that. So if any of you reading this are heading to Frankfurt, be warned. There are hotties there.
It finally happened people. I don’t think I am imagining it. I was the victim of racial profiling. Or at least accent profiling. Either way, I’m scarred. Here’s what happened.
After three nights of uber-expensive hotel restaurant food and beer and one night of the worst Domino’s pizza ever, I decided it was time to go out for dinner. There’s a mall about 500 yards or so away from the hotel. I was going to walk, but I was just starting to get better from my debilitating illness and it was cold as a motherfucker outside, so I asked the shuttle guy if he’d drop me off at the mall.
He said yes.
So I head over and see a bunch of restaurants, but the one that has been catching my eye is FireGrill.
I walk in, head to the bar since I’m doing the Steve Martin impression from the movie “The Lonely Guy,” and after getting one of the womenfolks’ attention after a ten minute wait, I order a Molsen Select draft.
And there I sit. There are five tables around me plus various bar customers, and it gets to be my turn to order. I wait about 15 minutes.
Trouble is, I don’t have a menu yet.
After several gestures and asking, I walk back out to the hostess station and get a menu. I proceed to go thru my usual business traveler’s dilemma:
On one hand, the company’s paying.
On the other hand, this shit’s expensive, and I feel guilty ordering the NY strip for 26 bucks Canadian plus a salad and two beers. $50 plus for one person to eat dinner is silly.
So, I resign myself to the FireGrill burger and a side Caesar salad.
I wait fifteen more minutes. Nothing. Folks that arrived after me have not only ordered, but they’ve eaten.
I’ve now waited about 45 minutes. My beer has been empty for ten minutes, and I’m just about seething. I stand up, walk over to the bar, get about a foot from the bitch before she says “Would you like another beer?”
I replied “Yes I would. But I’m not having it here. I’ve waited 45 minutes, had a 22 oz. draft beer and got my own menu, and you all don’t seem very interested in taking my $50, so I’m going next door to the Italian place. I’ll just pay for my beer,” and with that I handed her a Canadian twenty.
She looked at me as though I’d just called her pretentious, but she hands me my change: A ten, two dollar coins and some other slugs I didn’t recognize.
Wow. $7.50 for a 22 oz draft of their version of Budweiser? Is our dollar really that weak? I think it’s time to come up here with some troops and remind our neighbors to the North that they are allowed to exist and thrive only because we let them do so.
Either way, it’s back out amidst the drifting snow to try Divino Italian Restaurant.
They were just as French speaking wise, but very nice. I got a nice table, had my book (I know…I was that guy), and I ordered the mussels and a salmon caesar salad and a something red beer.
One thing I notice is that the French take their funky glasses very very seriously. And the more serious they look like their trying to be, the more I’m laughing at the frames.
Anyway, the service was impeccable, the help polite, the food was great, and when I needed a pen to write some information down for the cab I was going to call, I went to the lady at the bar.
She said “blah blah no parly voo inglase,” and smiled.
Something from my youth flashed in brain and I said (with pride and confidence) “Uh…uh…crayon por favor?”
She seemed delighted. She got me a pen, smiled, I said “Merci,” and that was that.
Was that so hard? Fuck those OTHER French. I will now refer to them as french with a little f. And I will tell everyone working here this week and beyond to avoid Le Fire Grill.
p.s. None of the bar wenches were hot enough to act like they did. I just wanted you to know.
So I don’t know if you know this, so I’m going to enlighten you all.
I’ve talked to friends and co-workers that travel alot, and if you wanna watch naughty movies in your hotel room in the states, it’s still just kind of R-rated plus. The movies look familiar and a little similar to ones you may have seen, only their shot from different angles so you don’t see…um…as much stuff.
However, a little birdy told me that in Canada, your ten bucks plus pressing the magical yellow button gets you actually naughtiness. The kind you find on the internet. Only the fast forward and rewind buttons actually work.
My question is, what kind of deviant watched pr0n while they’re in another country for weeks and away from everyone they know?
The answer is Habib, the guy that sat on the shuttle next to me this morning. Damned perv…
