Lunch at Melos
Poutine is a lot like pizza - the crappier an establishment it comes from, the more likely it is to be delicious. The upside of this is that the search for poutine will take one high and low; will be a true test of the poutine lover's strength, courage, and dedication; and at the end of it you will feel like you have truly accomplished something. On the downside, you're going to eat in a lot of shitty restaurants while searching for good poutine. Today was on the downside. Today I went to Melos Diner.
I knew that things were going to get dicey when I looked at the storefront and saw the sign taped up for the Ottawa Anarchist Movement meeting. I took a picture of the sign and have included it below, because it really speaks for itself. Note the irony.
To be totally honest, seeing this on the window only made me want to eat there more. I have a strange fascination with doing stupid things for the potential of getting a good story out of it.
After the Franglish cashier directed me to my booth and my waitress brought me both a breakfast and lunch menu (that one was my fault, I was indecisive) I started to soak in the environment. The place was virtually full, most of the clientelle being regulars. You could tell the difference because the regulars were refered to on a first name basis while everyone else was "sweetie." The waitress didn't use a pen and paper to do the orders either, she just took your order and then shouted it to the cook who was in the open kitchen at the other end of the diner.
Open kitchens can be a problem, because you see the parts of the food preparation process that you're better off not seeing. You never want to be the first person of the day to order poutine, because you know you're not getting fresh gravy. I was the first person to order poutine, but in this case I doubt it mattered because the gravy was likely a week old and would be no matter when I came in. When he needed gravy, he went over to the gravy vat, jammed in his ladel, and started stirring vigorously in order to return some condition of liquidity to what was likely semi hard gravy. When that didn't work he started ladeling in another mystery substance in order to soften it up. I'm guessing it was fresh gravy or, more likely, grease. It was at about this time I gave up on the notion of getting good poutine.
Slightly after 11:30am a man walks in and sits at the bar. He orders a Budweiser. He chugs it and leaves.
The old man bussing the tables had a flaming skull tattoo on his forearm. When a particulairly good song came on the radio he started drumming on the walls. The Franglish cashier danced with the waitress.
Right before I left two girls came in, unshowered and wearing hoodies (or if you're from Saskatchewan, bunnyhugs.) I knew they were coming in to get over last night's bender with bacon therapy, because when the waitress asked them if they wanted a breakfast or lunch menu, they didn't consult with one another or even think before saying "breakfast" at exactly the same time.
I sat there and watched all this play out over my burger and poutine, and I've decided that when you take such a shockingly real slice of life like that, it seems sureal. We're used to a world with at least some kind of rosy tint, but when you get right down to it the real world has armrest asses, child-friendly anarchist meetings, and beers before noon. I wanted to stand on my table and shout "I am Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works ye mighty, and despair!" but I somehow don't think anyone would have got it.
I knew that things were going to get dicey when I looked at the storefront and saw the sign taped up for the Ottawa Anarchist Movement meeting. I took a picture of the sign and have included it below, because it really speaks for itself. Note the irony.
To be totally honest, seeing this on the window only made me want to eat there more. I have a strange fascination with doing stupid things for the potential of getting a good story out of it.
After the Franglish cashier directed me to my booth and my waitress brought me both a breakfast and lunch menu (that one was my fault, I was indecisive) I started to soak in the environment. The place was virtually full, most of the clientelle being regulars. You could tell the difference because the regulars were refered to on a first name basis while everyone else was "sweetie." The waitress didn't use a pen and paper to do the orders either, she just took your order and then shouted it to the cook who was in the open kitchen at the other end of the diner.
Open kitchens can be a problem, because you see the parts of the food preparation process that you're better off not seeing. You never want to be the first person of the day to order poutine, because you know you're not getting fresh gravy. I was the first person to order poutine, but in this case I doubt it mattered because the gravy was likely a week old and would be no matter when I came in. When he needed gravy, he went over to the gravy vat, jammed in his ladel, and started stirring vigorously in order to return some condition of liquidity to what was likely semi hard gravy. When that didn't work he started ladeling in another mystery substance in order to soften it up. I'm guessing it was fresh gravy or, more likely, grease. It was at about this time I gave up on the notion of getting good poutine.
Slightly after 11:30am a man walks in and sits at the bar. He orders a Budweiser. He chugs it and leaves.
The old man bussing the tables had a flaming skull tattoo on his forearm. When a particulairly good song came on the radio he started drumming on the walls. The Franglish cashier danced with the waitress.
Right before I left two girls came in, unshowered and wearing hoodies (or if you're from Saskatchewan, bunnyhugs.) I knew they were coming in to get over last night's bender with bacon therapy, because when the waitress asked them if they wanted a breakfast or lunch menu, they didn't consult with one another or even think before saying "breakfast" at exactly the same time.
I sat there and watched all this play out over my burger and poutine, and I've decided that when you take such a shockingly real slice of life like that, it seems sureal. We're used to a world with at least some kind of rosy tint, but when you get right down to it the real world has armrest asses, child-friendly anarchist meetings, and beers before noon. I wanted to stand on my table and shout "I am Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works ye mighty, and despair!" but I somehow don't think anyone would have got it.
posted by B-Boy Nothing at 8:54 AM
