Poutine, schmoutine.

I was a poutine virgin when this plate was offered up to me at the Food Cart Festival in Portland, OR.   I wondered about poutine in the same kind of mildly curious and slightly incredulous do-they-really-eat-that way that I once wondered about “chicken-fried steak.”

As with my brief foray into Texas-style gluttony, two bites and I knew all I ever needed to know about poutine.

Sorry, Canada.

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