Fast Food Fantasia

As rain threatened at a quarter after four or so on Canada Day, my hungry friend agreed with my suggestion we venture over to Frenchies, a Quebec take out joint a few blocks away that I'd just seen an ad for in the Straight. Alas, it was closed, and the rain drops were starting to fall. Neither of us had been to the Crepe Cafe on Granville but it was close and we wanted some vaguely French food.
My friend luxuriated in her sweet crepe. I had some sort of grilled veg thing. Very tasty but in a fast food sort of way. Eggplant in a wrap is redundant, but exhilirating sudden mushroom erupted the posibility of transcending the fast food, food court genre that has colonized the downtowns of the first world, at least.
Frenchies was open when I returned the following week. Though they normally sell it by the slice, I was able to buy a whole Tortiere, as well as a smallish Montreal Smoked Meat sandwich. The coleslaw alone is worth moving to Montreal. Cabbage leafs have never been as succesffully herbally caressed. Signs abounded in the restaurant, warning the patron that Montreal Smoked Meat was Not Corn Beef. Yeah, that's like saying the sun isn't the moon. Within the orbit of pastrami, and the spiced meat dreams of butchers in the fullness of time. A stylish flavour, like Orson Welles in a cape. Too much of it can be overwhelming, but just the right amount ...ah.
And then we had the Tortiere.
Ok, this is something that Kerouac would have to come back from the dead to describe. Memere would have be resurrected first to bake it, and then he would be lured out of the time machine by the smell of it wafting him back to life. The meat would remind him of the rest of his life, he could live either forward or backward because it was all in the pie. R squared, cubed, bottled and corked, pour Ti Jean another life and let him describe the Tortiere.
I ate far too much.
Tormented into the soreness of dawn with dreams of gas clouds of zeppelins under the comand of the Red Baron, endlessly shooting at Snoopy in his flying dog house, forever imperiled, but never a dog.
Awakened with barks of real dogs and hunger meows of real cats, resolved never to OD on Frenchy's Tortiere again, but in moderation, like all good things, it just makes your life better.