Eddy Lainesse and Fernand Lachance look pretty trim, considering what they have been eating longer than anyone else on earth.
Forty years ago, the two friends gave the world the dish that has become a hallmark of Quebec cuisine.
One autumn afternoon in 1957 (they can’t remember whether it was September or October), Mr. Lainesse, then a truck driver, came into Mr. Lachance’s Café Ideal in Warwick, Que., where he was a regular, to order some fries.
Warwick is located near Victoriaville midway between Montreal and Quebec City in a region dotted with dairy farms and famous for its fresh cheese curds which Mr. Lachance displayed in small cardboard boxes on the café’s counter.
Craving something rich and tasty, Mr. Lainesse suddenly had a brainwave. Why not put the cheese and fries together?
“You’ll get a bloody poutine,” Mr. Lachance predicted, using French slang for what was to him, a “mess.”
But that was what Mr. Lainesse wanted, so they mixed the ingredients in a waxed paper bag, then added salt and vinegar, and a calorie packed culinary legend was born.
Mr. Lachance added the dish (40 cents – 10 cents extra for gravy) to the menu at Café Ideal (later renamed Lutin Qui Rit) and the art of clogging arteries has never been the same.
Not to be confused with traditional Acadian poutine (which can be a type of pudding or a pork stuffed ball of grated potato), the Quebec version is both an acquired taste and a bit like Scottish haggis, the target of many jokes.
Many Quebeckers are less than amused by all the attention paid to the humblest star in their culinary firmament. This is, after all, a province with many fine restaurants and a population – whether French or English speaking – that considers itself more sophisticated than the inhabitants of dour Ontario.
Quebeckers are highly sensitive about being portrayed as hayseeds. Several years ago, when Le Guide du Routard, Frances famous travel guide, called the province’s cuisine “fit for lumberjacks, flummoxed burghers in Quebec City forced local stores to take the book of their shelves for a while.
Fine European cuisine – complimented by contributions from such recent arrivals as the Vietnamese and Ethiopians – has pride of place, but Mr. Lachance, now 80, and Mr. Lainesse, 65, understandably see no shame in eating poutine.
For them, fancy restaurants serving food from all over the world are for city slickers, whereas the sinful gratification of a poutine evokes something distinctly native to Quebec.
Poutine doesn’t belong in the bistro world of chrome counters and halogen lamps; it’s most at home in the neon light of the plastic fork diner. There, along with fatty smothered meat sandwiches, guédilles {a mayo-laden mishmash on a hot-dog bun} and “steamies,” it appeals to the part of Quebec soul that worships all foodstuffs unholy to dieticians
Mr. Lachance, however, takes issue with poutines poor nutritional reputation.
Sitting in Mr. Lainesse’s kitchen {the two are discussing their collaboration together for the first time}, he says that not only does he still eat it once or twice a week, but so do fellow pensioners at his nursing home who are in their 90’s.
“So those people who say it’s not good for your health, they’re not telling the truth,” he insists.
That prompts Mr. Lainesse to quip; “You sound like you’re making an ad for the cheese industry.”
Over the years, Mr. Lachance has come to be known as “le père de la poutine,” which has made him a bit uncomfortable, he says, because Mr. Lainesse, now a travelling salesman for home-ventilations systems, has not shared the limelight.
Recognition is fine, but “we could have made a lot of money from this,” Mr. Lainesse points out, adding “perhaps we could have, but we didn’t do it properly.”
“How could we know?” Mr. Lachance asks.
And how could they have known? Although a relative newcomer to Quebec’s fast food scene (potato chips date from the 1850’s, a Turkish cook named Iskender invented the vertical grill used to make doners and shawarmas in 1867, and hamburgers were on the menu of the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair), poutine is big. For example, it’s now a staple of the major chains. Burger King’s decision to add it to the menu in 1992 generated an extra $2-million in curds business for Warwick’s Fromagerie Côté.
Poutine is also available in other provinces – it has been spotted as far west as Alberta – as well as other places where Quebeckers have traveled from New England to Venezuela. When they winter in Florida, for example, Mr. Lainesse and Mirielle, his wife of 36 years, can find it in restaurants run by Quebeckers.
And make no mistake, quality ingredients are important. Aficionados say good poutine needs fries that are cut relatively thick, not the matchstick type. As for the sauce, initially it wasn’t beef gravy but the special spicy thing that Mr. Lachance’s wife, Germaine, was famous for, a mixture of brown sugar, ketchup and Worcestershire sauce, served on the side so the fries wouldn’t get soggy.
Another essential, says Mrs. Lainesse (who speaks with some authority on this subject), is that the cheese be as fresh as possible. The restaurants in Florida airlift their curds from home, and she gets hers as soon as the local dairy has them ready, which is about 3:30 in the afternoon.
That way, she says, the cheese is still soft. Kept overnight, it will turn rubbery. And just to make sure it stays smooth until she needs it, she places the package in a pot of warm water when she gets home.
The thought of a restaurant poutine causes her husband to grumble, “You only get a few curds,” he complains, pointing out that in the hope of its inventor up to a pound of cheese is used to make two servings.
"A bit for my wife, the rest for me."