A Drunken Dish Full of Lies
The other night at around 3:00 a.m., I drunkenly stumbled out of a club on St. Laurent Blvd. and, like most people in my situation, could only think about one thing: food.
Now, if you were me, you’d probably be thinking, “Hey, I’m in Montreal; what better drunk food to get than poutine?” And at the time that was exactly what I wanted. I was a froshee, new to the city and dying for its world-renowned dish. I sure as hell wasn’t going to have $2.00 chow mein.
When I signed up for Frosh, I assumed that each night would be a non-stop thrill ride of poutine. But boy, was I ever wrong. I have come to the realization that poutine is not, in fact, a drunk’s best friend. McDonald’s is.
Before you start to quake with rage at my dismissal of drunk poutine, hear me out. I love the stuff, I really do. I always have and I always will. But there’s just something about biting into a McDonald’s burger and fries when you’re six beers deep that poutine can’t even touch.
Part of the fun might come from the fact that McDonald’s at 3:00 a.m. is a special place unlike anywhere else. It’s a place where friendships are born! It’s a place free of judgment, a place where you can stumble in and order the most massive pile of food and no one will even bat an eye. The employees see your type every night of the week. Simply put, McDonald’s is the yin to my drunken yang.
Make no mistake, I’ll still be eating plenty of poutine during my four years in this city, but I guess I’ll just have to do it sober.
Poutine, you’ll always be in my heart, but it’ll just have to be my alcohol-free heart.