I’m fascinated by the correlation between geography and how people eat fries.

McDonald’s is the great equalizer, fries-wise, spreading Heinz ketchup and individual packets of barbecue sauce all over the world, but I’ve run into enough fast food fare to know that the buck doesn’t always stop at McDonald’s, and people often save one or two dollars for some extra toppings at a local joint. Those extra toppings across the street are different in every city you visit; at least, that’s what I’ve come to expect. Just a two hour drive south of Los Angeles, a land smothered by Tommys, the popularity of chili and cheese is dwarfed by San Diego’s carne asada fries and all nature of fresh mex over fried potatoes.

I am unversed in the french fry freestylings of the country at large, but I’ve never eaten as many garlic fries as I have in the bay area, and somewhere out there, people think it’s a good idea to put mayonnaise on their fried potatoes. When I visit a new part of the country, I want to know how the locals eat their fries, because we Americans like to adopt common foods, translate them into regional vernacular and then claim them as our own. Likewise, the ever-international winter garden crop, shoestrung and fried in oil, has evolved a bit beyond pigtailed blondes on rollerskates serving cheeseburgers and Coca Cola to customers in large, rocketship sedans, asking, “Do you want fries with that?”

A couple weeks ago I spent a few days in Ontario, Canada, and research into local dining inveritably brought me to yet another way to consume fries. After seeing Anthony Bourdain’s Canada episode of No Reservations, I became excited at the prospect of poutine, Quebec’s great claim to heart palpatations and Canada’s answer to carne asada fries. Ontario’s translation of poutine is a democratized version – fries and gravy with shredded cheese instead of curds – and you can imagine the result (if you threw in a deep-fried turkey leg and some cranberry juice, it would taste like someone doesn’t quite understand Thanksgiving). It goes to show that Canada and America aren’t so far apart; if you construe cheese fries as a Midwestern flavor and gravy fries as a Northeastern flavor, Ontario’s poutine only makes sense in a province that loves hot dogs, hamburgers and bar-and-grills.

Having driven around the Toronto suburbs for a few days, I have to agree with my dad when he says that Canada and America are suburbs of each other. With a bar-and-grill or chain restaurant at every corner, Ontario didn’t look too different from certain parts of New England. As much as I know that the question, “What is American cuisine?” is for fools and fast food philistines, when I passed a restaurant in Burlington with a sign that said, “Canadian Cuisine,” I had to ask the same foolish question: What the hell is Canadian Cuisine? In a country where Marlboro cigarettes are called “Marlboro Canada” and golden arches are marked by maple leaves, it’s easy to assume that Canadian cuisine is really just strategically labeled American cuisine – I wonder if a hamburger at one of those bar-and-grills is served with a toothpicked Canadian flag in the top bun.

I admit that I’ve only seen a small portion of Canada – the area of Ontario within a two hour drive from Buffalo, New York – and I spent most of my time there in a country suburb an hour outside of Toronto. I didn’t experience actual Canadian cuisine outside of the mindboggling realization that bacon was bacon and the closest thing to “Canadian bacon” is a different part of the pig altogether, deliciously coated in corn- or pea-meal. Instead of seeking roasted wild game or exploring the international diversity of Toronto, I was thinking about french fries.

The slight dissimilarities between American and Canadian foodfare intrigued me more than the culinary mysteries of Quebec and the great wild north. I enjoyed learning about peameal bacon, encountering Canadian unfamiliarity with the concept of iced tea, trying one version of poutine, and even eating breakfast at a restaurant that shamefully kept maple-flavored syrup on the table in place of the real deal. Ontario wasn’t America. Ontario was just really, really close, and in Burlington on Labor Day weekend, it was close enough to bring lunch time and an American pasttime together. As its own city chamber of commerce will tell you, Burlington hosts Canada’s Largest Ribfest, giving me another chance to explore what isn’t different between American and Canadian food.

Before going to the festival in downtown Burlington, we stepped into an empty BBQ shop mere blocks from the event, evidence that Southern-style Q is more than just an annual novelty in this part of Ontario. Pete’s Hillbilly Heaven sells rubs, sauces and beside something called “Canadian Salsa” that furrowed my brow more than whetted my appetite, a hefty serving of Americana. Photos of barbecue joints from the confederate South decorate the walls and imported products line the shelves. The ribfest has a few competitors from Canada, but if there’s Q in Ontario good enough to make a rabbit hug a hound, my bet is that it comes from south of the Mason-Dixon line. It doesn’t seem like Canada is in dispute – I didn’t see them plant any maple leaf flags in a rack of ribs – but as a Californian, my claim to BBQ fandom is no less distant, so I welcome Canada to the great North American platter. Except you, Quebec. No Q for you.

Downtown Burlington is a quaint lakeside town, full of once-removed British flare and surrounded by almost as many golf courses as Tim Hortons drive-thrus. Along the lake, an 18th-hole-shaped piece of land doglegged left and housed an overnight village of white tents. The fairway was a gauntlet, with rows of ribbers lining both sides, billows of smoke giving in to the lake breeze, lines of lip-smackers awaiting their Q and southern belles with full racks advertising full racks. Immense collages of banners and trophies framed each ribbing station in a robust attempt to earn our patronage over dozens of identical others, and live country music entertained those sitting at the picnic tables, getting sauce all over themselves. Was this Canada’s largest ribfest? I’m inclined to believe it. Was it typical of ribfests in the states? My guess is yes.

Was it a fair competition? After witnessing local favoritism for Canadian contestants, cute girls campaigning for votes with smiles and the fact that one person can only eat so many half-racks of pork ribs, my answer is no. I’ve seen more evidence of healthy (or rather, unhealthy) BBQ competition in James’ life story. The ribs we tried – from Alabama, South Carolina and Texas – were fall-off-the-bone satisfying, but they wouldn’t make it as competitors in my own autobiography. Really good barbecue joints, even in California, serve up better racks than these travelling professionals, and as the American adage goes, my dad’s homemade ribs are even better than those.

That said, they were still delicious. In the end, good ribs are good ribs, and Canada’s Largest Ribfest gave me another welcome meal in the North American style. Vive cuisine Nord-Américaine!

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This entry was posted on Friday, September 18th, 2009 at 8:46 am and is filed under travel.