A Canadian comedian riffs on America's obsession with turning meals into theatrical productions: fog machines at dinner, gender reveals with rented jets and volcanoes. He contrasts this with Canada's no-frills approach, though he admits poutine exists.
Chapters
No, don't, don't, don't do that. Don't make that hand gesture. None of that is good. I'm sorry, I've tried to understand America. I just don't. In the same way that America doesn't seem to understand what enough means. They don't go to restaurants there anymore, they go to dining experiences. There are fog machines, synchronized plating, someone announces your entrée like it's returning from war, and then they serve you a single scallop balanced on a flaming rock with a side of edible helium. God, even hamburgers at some places are the size of a toddler wrapped in bacon, deep fried in motor oil, and served between two donuts while someone yells "America!" in the background. It's not just the food, they supersize everything down there. Gender reveal parties used to be cut into a cake, see if it's pink or blue. Now you rent a private jet, drop dye into a volcano while a marching band plays Eye of the Tiger. For what? A baby. A future toddler who will one day eat glue and headbutt drywall for fun. You know how we Canadians handle gender reveals? We go, "Hey Carl, Sally's having a girl!" Then Carl says, "Cool," cracks open a fresh 2-4, and complains about why the Stampedeers suck. That's it. The kid gets born, maybe if they're lucky someone brings over a dozen butter tarts they picked up at the IGA. Nobody is renting a cannon. Don't get me wrong, we have our own issues up here. Our national food is a pile of fries that's covered in curds and gravy and looks like something someone scraped off of a curling rink floor, but at least we understand portion control. So yes, I'm Canadian. I will eat my boring casserole because we believe up here that if your cake needs four-wheel drive, maybe it's time to rethink the recipe.
