Oh, I get you! I’m with you. Vive la revolution!
I miss real poutine fiercely. It shouldn’t be so hard to find. And I know for a fact that other North Americans adore the real thing because they flock to it when they visit la belle province.
Speaking of Le Club Sandwich, it was our usual after-club haunt, and it happened to be located right around the corner from Tabu, a club of a certain reputation, staffed by enterprising young gentlemen who danced for gentlemen guests. On stage. While undressing.
Our friend from Dorval joined us one evening and talked us into stopping into Tabu after clubbing instead of heading directly for our poutine fix. He was struck by cupid’s arrow soon after we entered. And when it turned out that the enterprising young gentleman that Mr. Dorval fancied spoke no English — oh, my!
You should have heard the French flow. He even had a decent accent!
Max was shocked. Sincerely.
He’d known the guy for years and never suspected he spoke French.
Ah, language politics.