Poutine In My Mouth, My Mother ‘Effin Mouth


A few weeks ago, after I had been invited to a media-comped meal of various Quebecois treats at P’tit Soleil in Westwood, I knew I just had to make some sort of crazy poutine pun in my headline. It took me a while, but I’m thankful for the musical genius of Akinyele for the assist (link not safe for work, btw). Anyway, now that I’ve officially patted myself on the back for my vulgar punnage, let’s move on, shall we?


What do we know about poutine? Well, it’s a French Canadian indulgence involving gravy and cheese curds over fries. I first had it back in college on a fraternity trip up to Montreal where after a night of visiting such fine establishments as Club Super Sexe (real place, fake boobies), my BROS and I headed to McDonalds and enjoyed some poutine with our fries. Probably not the best exposure to the stuff. Fast forward 14 years [as I gently weep for time passed], and I found myself in the heart of “Tehrangeles,” amidst various eateries hawking any variety of Persian delicacies. Not P’tit Soleil, however. This place is all French Canadian all the time (sort of like Club Super Sexe, if you think about it, but probably more hygienic). Nevertheless, I was eager to reacquaint myself with poutine, even if it did mean loosening up the ol’ belt a notch or two.

Pics of the undertaking after the jump…

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