Never Forget

2003. 

9AM. 

Montreal, Canada. 

I can still smell the grease of the fries and feel the cobblestones beneath my feet, cool air blowing my brown curls everywhere. Bored was the word. I mean, who goes to Canada for vacation? My parents, I guess. I'm not quite sure how to describe Alex and Phil, except that they never took vacations and when they did, they picked Canada, specifically because we could drive there. And then they didn't let me turn the radio on so I suffered in silence for 8 hours. 

The suffering, as it happens, was worth it. We spent our first day on a walking tour, which, at seven, I hated — until we stopped for food. It was then I discovered a high I would spend the rest of my life chasing. Poutine. 

Authentic poutine from Quebec. The aroma of fries and gravy and cheese wafted toward me. I was apprehensive, as any child is about any new food. I was used to fries plain, with ketchup. But Alex cajoled me into trying a bite and I was mesmerized. To quote The Wizard of Oz, we certainly were not in Kansas anymore. I asked for poutine from that same place every time we ate. We left and it was the most memorable part of the trip. 

I grew older and tried various versions of the dish in American restaurants. They weren't even close to what I had experienced that trip. I tried my hand at making it myself one Thanksgiving, using the gravy for the turkey, frozen fries, and generic brand shredded cheese. It was even more disappointing. Once I learned to use the stovetop without supervision, I tried recipe after recipe. It never held up. 

I've been back to Montreal twice and I cannot find that restaurant. Neither my parents nor I remember the name, and any time I ask a local for a recommendation, it is not the heavenly dish I encountered that day. 

Sometimes, it feels like a dream. Am I imagining it to be better in my head than it was? Have my homemade versions tasted perfectly fine all these years? After all, I was seven, and how much can you really trust a child? My mind constantly runs in circles until I finally come to the conclusion: I'm not crazy. I think of that poutine every day. That's not crazy. It's dedication. I know something glorious when I taste it, and that trip in 2003 was something to behold. 

Whether I visit Montreal five more times or 500, or find the place or not, it will always live in my heart. That poutine opened up a world of possibilities for me, and I will never forget.