April 16 – Glasgow Station (West of Ottawa)

Ulrike Rodrigues, Team Voyageurs.

“Caution: Hot Fries Ahead”

"Caution: Hot Fries Ahead"

Jug parked the motorhome at Cherry’s Gas Station just west of Glasgow Station. A highway sign tells us that highway 508 was renamed to highway 508 in 1998, and an earlier sign reminded us that Heidi, Rob, Jug and I were following the path of our namesakes – the Voyageurs.

It’s the first official day of riding! Rob and Heidi pedal past a sign that warns CAUTION: HOT FRIES AHEAD.

The proprietor of the gas station catches me taking a touristic photo of the fries sign. He steers me toward a friendly-faced fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache and a T-shirt as white as his vintage delivery truck.

“Are you the one with the fries?” I ask blindly, searching for a fast food outlet.

“I am,” he motions me toward the truck, “would you like some poutine?” He stops in front of the white van. The tires are up on blocks, the windshields are painted over, and a carved screen door opens to the converted kitchen inside.

A cut-out sign on the top of the van says “Brian’s Spuds with Taste” and I reach up to accept a menu that Brian has handed me. I’m full, unfortunately, and when I run back to invite Jug to a poutine-tasting, he’s hesitant.

“I don’t eat fries,” he moans, “…And I’m not hungry.”

When we return to the van, I’m ready to pass on our regrets, but Brian is adamant.

“This is the best poutine you’ll ever have. I make it with fresh potatoes, Adams’ cheese curds and poutine gravy.”

“What kind of gravy is that?” asks Jug. He’s wondering if it’s beef, chicken or vegetable-based.

“It’s poutine gravy,” Brian repeats, and he’s lowered a load of potatoes into the fryer. “It comes from Quebec, and I make the poutine the way it should be made: in layers. These other places,” he waves his hand towards nearby Arnprior and Renfrew, “sometimes they use frozen fries, or grated mozzarella…”

Brian has handed over a sample serving of poutine for Jug and I to share. It’s hot in a white cardboard chip box, and the gravy is brown and translucent over melting white cheese and golden-skinned potatoes.

I watch Jug from the corner of my eye, and am amazed to see his fork lift gravy-drenched chips to mouth over and over again. He likes it!

Brian is terribly pleased, and tells us that once you’ve tried his poutine, you’ve tried the best. We nod in agreement.

We chat a bit about his hopes of starting up a beer-batter fish and chip place, his family history and – jokingly – the immaculate whiteness of his T-shirt. He looks down at his shirt and pats his belly. “Ah yes,” he chuckles, “I’ve been eating too many of my own chips!”

Jug and I give Brian a hearty motorhome handshake when we pull out of Cherry’s to meet up with Heidi and Rob.

“You know,” Jug comments, “Rob is going to be upset when he hears about this.”

“Why?” I ask, scrunching up a serviette.

“He’s the one who said he must have poutine!”