Addiction is nothing to joke about or scoff at… unless it’s an addiction so close to obsession, then the first step to face your emotional and physiological dependancy is to man-up, face it and admit to it; My Name is Jason and I am a Puff-o-holic. What is a “puff” you ask? No, it has nothing to do with any narcotic that’s inhaled or smoked – well “inhaled” in a different sense of the word. Puffs are things next to Godliness; sweet, warm fried dough balls bathed in honey worthy of any ancient Olympian… and now citizens of the greater Montreal area.
Category:
Food
Tis the season where everyone gives the winter coats and snow boots a big middle finger and tell snowboarders and skiers to suck it. Spring has sprung and a soon prevailing winds will blanket the city in the aroma of manure from farmers planting their crops from south of the city. I know it’s gross but you know it’s spring when the first thing you that hits your face in the morning before your coffee buzz is stench of cow poop from 30 kilometres away. And what proceeds spring? Yes, your second grade teacher would be proud, summer.
Recently I read this article by Buzzfeed about why Americans can’t get poutine right. The author has genius and insightful remarks about how chefs feel the need to class up, “improve” something that doesn’t need improving, and basically try to foodify something that is in most cases, impossible to fetishize. One entry caught my eye and twisted a thorn that has been in my side for a while now; The Gorbals in Los Angeles’ “Bánh mì” poutine. It’s not the fact that they were completely missing the point on a classic poutine, but in the same breath, absolutely making an abomination of something that I hold dear to my heart, a sandwich.