Uh-Oh

There are few things more dangerous in life than a craving. That pesky and delicious little desire that starts out as a thought in the back of your brain and then slowly works its way down to your taste buds, causing them to water and salivate, teasing you with the memory of the last time you satiated every pleasure receptor with the flavours of "whatever".

I like to think of myself as a being of strong will. Put in front of me all you dare and I can stand my ground, laughing in the presence of the sweet, the salty, the savoury; I can walk away a stronger person because of it. Every man, however, has his weakness. Like Kryptonite to my soul, the one thing I cannot turn down or walk away from is that wonderful Montreal invention so savoury and delicious: The Poutine.

If it's in front of me I will eat until it's gone, no matter the consequences on my system; to waste such beauty seems blasphemous to me. If it's on the menu, I will order it. Yes, please, I will have cheese and gravy, I will pay extra, I don't care how much, just give me what I NEED! And it doesn't seem to matter the quality to me either. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know the good from the bad and I know what restaurants use cheese curds and home made gravy and I know the ones that use shredded "cheddar" and package brown sauce, but it doesn't matter; in fact something about the ladder makes it seem even more sinful and somehow forbidden. Well, to such forbidden fruit I say "Cast me out if it means one taste of such sweet desire."

So, where am I going with this you ask? Well, it's labour day today and everything is closed; the perfect day for a nice stroll downtown, without the temptations of shopping and dropping a few coins on something I know I don't need. But I was wrong my friends. Everything wasn't closed. There was one store still neon lit with the devilishly tempting promise of hand-cut fries and Quebec cheese curds. Smoke's Poutinerie has officially opened for business...

Like a shotgun to the knee caps I felt weak and helpless against its aroma and without even thinking my body pulled itself through the doors and up to the counter. I don't even remember speaking, but there it was in front of me: pulled pork poutine. The triple threat. The thing that I know one day will end me but like a fool I dive in.

Those crispy on the outside, soft and pillowy on the inside taters; the creamy, gooey, stretchy hoards of cheese; that wonderful hit of fresh brown gravy, all topped with tiny little morsels of slow cooked-to-perfection, chipotle spiced, salty pulled pork, "Praise ye Poutine Gods, crafted in thine image, this thing of beauty!"

As it all came together upon that first fateful fork full of goodness, twirling it around to gather the tail of stringy cheese that seems never-ending, I cursed and praised my craving all in one bite; "Ladies and gentlemen, we're now pulling into Euphoria, please fasten your safety belts and return your trays to their proper, upright positions."

Now, all that being said, there are a few things to be said about Smoke's Poutine.

First: while delicious, the gravy isn't the best I've had; it has an almost "Chalet Sauce" flavour going on, so whether or not that's your thing, I'm not sure.

Second: I'm scared. Why? Because it's so close to my house? Yup. Because they are clearly open on holidays? You betcha. Because they are reasonably priced? That doesn't hurt. Or is it because, aside from the traditional and the pulled pork, they have an entire menu of topping choices? Bingo has been called! I genuinely fear for my health at what may happen as my arteries scream for me to let up. It will be the ultimate test of indulgence vs. will power.

So, perhaps I am biased because of my affliction with all that cheese and gravy goodness, but regardless of what drives you there, Smoke's Poutine is Guelph's newest addition to downtown fare, and I can see no reason for lack of success. Go in, grab a fork, throw a dart at the extensive menu and see what you come up with. Undoubtedly I will see you there; you'll recogize me as being the guy in the corner who hasn't moved in three-weeks. Mmmm, mmmm, cheesey.

Cheers all
-Phil