If you find yourself in Montreal and feel the sudden, inexplicable urge to punish your arteries, Pub Victoria is the place to do it. I arrived as a confused tourist and left as a man who has seen the face of Canadian culinary madness—and liked it. I ordered the Poutine, a dish that looks like a high-speed collision between a potato farm and a dairy factory. It’s a heap of fries smothered in a gravy so thick it could probably be used as engine oil, topped with "squeaky cheese" that sounds like a frantic mouse every time you take a bite. There were chunks of meat involved, too. I have no earthly idea if this is how it’s supposed to look or taste, but it was, frankly, delicious. Wash it all down with a Guinness, and you have the perfect "working lunch." By which I mean, you will be utterly incapable of doing any actual work for the rest of the day. It’s heavy, it’s messy, and it’s magnificent.
