Such a good idea at the time

If you had seen these photos, you would have agreed with us (us being two ex-pat pseudo Montrealers living in Toronto on a poutine quest that has been languishing for quite some time). With winter arriving here with a vengeance (here being Canada), it somehow became that much less appealing to venture into lands unknown in search of poutine that was almost certainly bound to be disappointing. Our quest was back-burnering until I saw Mrs. Marv's post. She (no poutine aficionado let it be said) whipped up a picture perfect poutine that set our minds a-working. If Mrs. Marv (a poutine virgin) could fashion a poutine of the gods, we could certainly pull off something approaching a 2 am Ashton special.

Or not.

The day started with a quick run-down of the ingredient list, and we set off to remedy what we were lacking. Aviva insisted that we check out her Saturday-only pupuseria, and thank god we did, because that was the culinary high point of the day. I would link to it if I knew its name (Latin Grocery maybe?). In any case, if you're in the Bloor/Ossington area on a Saturday, definitely stop in for a couple of pups. Aviva loved the tamale (it was good), but the pups were amazing. A day-saver.

In any case, we stocked up on what we were missing at her local grocer, completely forgetting the key ingredient on our first run-through: Potatoes. Luckily, upon our return, we learned that Carlos and Alicia are well-versed in deep-frying techniques (and in potatoes). They pointed us in the right direction. (Of course, since we didn't end up deep frying anything, who can really say if the potatoes we ultimately purchased would, in fact, have been suited to frying. For another day.) In all: One outing, four stops (including chicken stock at the bulk joint).

And so to home to await the pups. (When we had tried to order our pupusas, the owner gestured towards the back of the dep (it's really more of a corner store than a restaurant) and indicated the masses of people hovering at and around the three tables-for-two. They had all placed orders and were well ahead of us. Luckily, Aviva lives close by, so a return run for pickup wasn't a problem.) When the time came, I headed out to pick up the pups plus a tamale. At that point we hadn't yet become aware of everything we were lacking.

Cut forward several hours.

We got things started, and our spirits were high. By the time we had prepped our potatoes (only to realize that the Meijer's special potato fry-cutter I had imported for Veever was a piece of junk), we realized that we were a little low on oil. (Yes, we had considered that possibility on our previous purchasing venture, but decided that we were all to the good and that we surely had enough oil to deep fry a couple (four--four?--though I suppose it's possible that portion sizes hors-Québec are slightly different than what we're used to) (we went with six) of potatoes.)

So we're standing there with two half-drained 1L containers of oil - canola and safflower (sunflower?). It seemed like a good idea to combine them.

Seemed like.

So we did. But despite our frankensteinesque recombinant oil, we were still a far cry from deep-frying depths. So Veever ran out to pick up some more bastard oil (of unknown origins) and we added it to the pot.

At this point, one thing we were pretty sure of, though, was that we were painfully ill-equipped to guesstimate the temperature of our oil. Our initial recipe had us starting at 325, then cranking it to 350. It seemed difficult to imagine how we might approach these temperatures by eye-balling oil (which, you may have noticed, always looks pretty much the same, which is one of the reasons grotesque restaurant kitchen accidents like hands-plunging-into-hot-oil happen so often), so Aviva ran out to buy a candy thermometer. (Yes, I have one.) (Yes, I considered bringing it.) (No, I did not bring it.)

She came back with a cutting-edge piece of machinery, though. It's amazing. It might actually force us to make candy.

Now, the pan really did appear to have been dried properly, but the oil kept heaving and bubbling. Aviva has basically never deep-fried anything, as it turns out, but I myself have no small love of the fried, and am known to deep fry at the slightest opportunity (for which reason I do not and will not own a deep fryer).

But this oil. It was a menace. It kept bubbling sporadically. Sporadically but viciously. When it bubbled, it exploded. (Did I mention Aviva has a small baby?) After it attempted several times to maim or kill us, I decided to stir it, thinking that any remaining dampness at the bottom of the pot would be the cause of our problems and of the erratic behaviour of the oil. So I took the candy thermometer and give it a big (but gentle stir).

The goddamned thing exploded. By that point, we were all terrified. We decided that the problem had to be the oil admixture, so I went out to get more to replace what was in the pot. A couple of stops later, I returned with a 3L container of corn oil. (Corn oil? I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine.)

It turns out that, in the interim, Aviva had discovered that our sauce brun was, as she so succinctly put it, "vile." I headed back out to see what I could muster up in the way of store-bought "chicken gravy."

Not much. Carlos and Alicia's was closed. The Portuguese chicken roasters stared at me blankly when I asked after chicken gravy. (It was at this point that I remembered that the only other time I had attempted to make my own poutine was an embarassing escapade in Mexico-of all places-which would really be better off if forgotten.) I did finally find a can of "Heinz chicken gravy" at the Ethiopian dep.

So that's what I brought home.

Aviva labelled it "Cream of chicken soup" (not something you'd ever want to drown your fries in) and ran out the door to find something more suitable. She came back with a can of "Campbell's chicken gravy." It tasted like "Cream of chicken soup."

So we returned to the drawing board and made a similar version of our initial "vile" gravy, omitting some pepper, omitting some (all of the?) wine, adding some balsamic vinegar, and winding up with something vaguely edible after countless steps involving combining and recombining various elements.

(Did I mention that in the meantime Aviva's youngest pointed at our oil and the candy thermometer spontaneously threw itself into the hot oil? At which point I made the executive decision to abandon all attempts at frying, pursuant to which we decided to bake (bake???) our fries.)

In any event, the (baked) fries were ok, the (cheddar) curds were ok, the (what kind of) gravy was ok, and the ketchup was excellent.

I think we'll abandon our quest for a while.