We wanted poutine. None of the reviews around the hotel we were staying in were raving. Here, they should have been.
Aside from the fact that the waitress stopped speaking to me in French the moment she realized it wasn't my first language, and the completely nonsensical comics about colonialism on the walls, this place was everything we were looking for, and so much more-- especially quantity-wise.
My boyfriend got a veggie burger, which is always geocached away in Montreal, and it was delicious. The salad it came with had a bizarre mustardy dressing, but who eats salad when you get a GIANT TERRINE OF POUTINE?
We got the one with mushrooms, onions, and peppers (asked for no bacon), and attacked it. The gravy was hearty, and the mixture of soggy fries with crispy ones-- could I make it sound any tastier?-- was unlike anything we can get in California. I'm completely unclear why. The mushrooms were a brilliant addition, too. We were hurtin after we downed the entire thing, in the best of ways.
And despite all the warnings, I have yet to have a heart attack. I'll keep you posted.