Okay, it’s not surströmming, and it’s not baby mice in the bottom of a bottle of wine, but…
America…fuck yeah!
Jesus Christ, who ever thought this was a good idea? Okay, I’m down with pancakes, and maybe even chocolate chip pancakes (I guess), and I like sausage well enough (especially maple-flavoured, though they’re hard to find here), and I might even have pancakes and sausage for breakfast, but chocolate chip pancake wrapped around sausage…on a stick? Only in America.
Canada…fuckin’ “eh”!
So yeah, it looks as if someone might have eaten it first, cheese curds have a weird, rubbery texture that some people don’t like, and I don’t even want to think a little about the calories or fat, but I must say that when it’s two in the morning and you’re drunk, on your way home from the bar after closing time, a big styrofoam takeout container of poutine is really goddamned good. Québec takes the blame for this Canadian tradition, and you’re most likely to get it “authentic” there, but even as far east as Halifax, you can find pretty good poutine if you know where to look. Hopefully, it’s on the way home from the bar because I can’t even imagine eating this heart-attack-waiting-to-happen if you’re sober.
England…WTF?
The name is sort of odd, especially to North Americans (who have a whole different meaning for the word “faggot”), and although I’ve never had this brand, and nobody told me they were “faggots”, I have had this dish. Whether or not the sauce was authentic West Country, I don’t know, but Dad’s side of the family is pretty authentic West Country, so I suppose it might have been. Tasted like gravy to me, but the pork was pretty good. I’m still putting this here because the name Mr. Brain’s Pork Faggots in authentic West Country sauce amuses the hell out of me. Besides, this is one of the few English foods that’s actually fit to eat. Tripe, anyone? Christ, it used to gross me out to see Gram boiling fucking tripe on the stove, with the ripply/holey bits cresting the bubbles every so often, and no, I never once had the urge to taste it. I have the feeling it’s served with onions to kill the taste and distract you from the rubbery, stomach-y texture. Bleh.
