Our Last Gig: Pouzzafest, Montreal
Sure–you of know it, am I right?
God’s gift to man, a recipe received via shafts of lights and burning shubbery ages ago, a mystical sacrament sent from on high:
Translated as only those nutty Canadiens could do, brother!—this manna consists of glorious frites suffocated under an earthy brown gravy.
And I ask you, do our chilly neighbors up yonder stop there?
Fuck no….hey, I know–let’s cover the whole thing in Cheese Curds now!!!!
And that’s just the base model, friend.
If you know us at all here at the CH3 gourmand field team, you know we’re gonna go for all the swanky options:
‘la saucisse, as shown, but let’s not forget the other toppings, yeh?
Foie Gras? Bacon Bits?
The tears of a heartbroken street clown?
Bring it on!
Oh yes……the tale begins and ends with Poutine, but when invited many months ago, we wondered just as you do now:
What the hell is a Pouzzafest anyways!?
For that matter, just what is Pouzza, and why does it deserve its own fest, hmmm?
Oh, why try to explain when this nifty educational video is available!!
I think you can see why we readily accepted their gracious invitaion and reported for duty!
A leisurely schedule, we report late morning to the Gardener garage & lounge to begin this sordid journey…….
God bless our hosts, they actually send First Class tickets to Montreal!
And while the in-flight chow consists of neither curd nor gravy, it is passable when paired with endless table wines!!
With the time change and a brief, weepy breakdown at the airport when told of Macho Man’s demise, it is well late when we hit the curbside.
Arriving to the Residences Universitaires UQAM upon our thrones of Pabst, we are giddy as Freshmen arriving for Fall semester!
Onto the town and the usual hilarity ensues.
Last Call at Foufounes Electriques, where we gaze upon their fine collection of Catholic Molestation art!
Back to the dorm rooms and we collapse into schoolboy beds.
Our nocturnal wanderings done, our starch and gravy appetites sated, we fall into deep sleep and dream of Canadian mountians:
Their very Earth’s crust fried to a golden crisp, their dizzying peaks capped with brown, delicious snow!
Up on a glorious Saturday, a brisk walk down St Urbain toward Vieux-Port de Montréal .
A quick, plain snack fends off our hunger of the inevitable meal to come!
Unfortunately, they are serving only cheap well whiskies in the Vaulted Cathedral, and we are quickly shown the door…….
But no time to ponder, it is time for the next Poutine of the trip, this time on the charming patio of wittily named Montreal Poutine!
The day is fine, and we tread the cobblestones lightly, like all the rest of the fat and 6%-beer-buzzed tourists.
But wait a minnit, don’t we have a job to do?
Oh yeah……we gotta gig goddamnit, and soundcheck in 10!
And while running through a few peppy numbers in the very cool and Skull-a-licious empty club, who should we spy but Carlos Soria of the famed Nils?!
We feel like we’ve known him forever, the nut…and perhaps we have!
We spend the rest of the evening talking of shared friends and memories before returning to the dorms for beauty naps and nips off the Jameson that promoter JP has graciously left at the desk!!
Freshened by the rest and the incredible 3 hours! since our last potatoe-and-gravy snack, we bounce through the night, the set, and after hour hijinks with aplomb!
What? Photos of us actually playing?
But we did play, honest!
Wait, hold on…..
What? And was there another poutine involved?
Well, hmmm. I guess so?
To tell the truth, at this point, things get vague.
Our time has stretched along with the very curvature of this Northern Hemishphere, and the night is a dizzying mix of fried potatoes, Irish Whiskey, cheese curds and skulls, all topped with a delicious brown ooze.
Am I in heaven?
We sadly pack our meager things into laundry hampers and hug our floor advisors farewell.
We’re gonna miss going to this school, goddamnitl!!
Heh….perhaps one last stop at FouFones for the festival sponsored BBQ, yes?
Sitting there, amongst the floating skulls and sacrilegious artwork, enjoying the sunshine and smoky dogs, we find ourselves grining, to a man.
We’ve been to a few fests, sure.
Maybe we’re more suited to these things, hell, I don’t know.
But this has been a rare blast, maybe because it’s new, maybe because it’s all new to us.
To be here among pals and savor an absolutely gorgeous city on a Spring weekend, it all makes sense.
It’s then that we finally corner Hugo and JP, and they finally tell us what a Pouzza is:
Ya take the Poutine gravy.
You pour it on ……
Foreheads are slapped.
Cartoon lightbulbs, they literally flicker on above our spinning heads.
And just like that, they whisk us into airport vans as we clutch onto wrought iron railings, reluctant to leave.
But…but…we never got to try that….
Dear God, why have you waited to tell us!?
Perhaps next time, oui?