Thanks for your kind words, Andre. But a word about poutine: it's the national dish of the Ottawa Valley, and a debate rages among aficionados about which side of the Valley holds the Grail, so to speak. There is consensus that authentic poutine may be purchased only from a chip wagon. Accept no substitutes, such as poutine bought in a restaurant or served on a plate. (See the reference below to NYC, of all places.)
What is it, then? French fries cooked in a chip wagon, packed end-on in a light cardboard box about 3" square, with cheese curds (white preferred for authenticity) stuffed in among the fries, with a healthy (using that word figuratively) helping of pork gravy then ladled over the lot. (Why a light cardboard box? It's important to let onlookers know that you have The Real Thing from the grease stains that immediately appear on the outside of the box.)
I can usually manage a serving every 18 months or so, or whenever my arteries start to slump and wilt, and need a bit of stiffening. It is tasty, no doubt about that -- but whenever I eat it, I worry about what it's doing to my insides.
One winter years ago, friends were visiting from Manhattan, and we went skating on the canal. Afterwards, I said I thought I'd have my occasional poutine, and described it to them. They thought I was just making it up, and were shocked and appalled when they saw it & smelled it. Now, however, an enterprising Montrealer has opened up a poutine shop in Brooklyn, and it's become chic, or at least popular.
On balance, I reckon that poteen is probably safer for you. Poutine, OTOH, lends itself to A-grade bad puns about the Russian president.
If I were to eat it during a break on a ride, I'd be reliving the experience for the rest of the day, and I doubt that I'd be climbing any hills.
