A Canadian moment
I'm in a pretty substantial queue the other day at Popeye's at Bloor and Yonge. And it's ridiculous, because everyone else is Chinese. Like, hardcore fresh-off-the-boat-that-just-sailed-down-from-Richmond-Hill Chinese. And you know how they love their PFK.
And so there's this one older lady who really can't understand why it's cheaper to buy a three-piece meal when she only wants two pieces. And she's trying to make herself understood by the service staff. And all nasty latent xenophobia aside, she's really not doing this particularly well. And this is not being helped by the fact that the staff is all brown. Like, the really brown type of brown, that get looked at funny when they commit the crime of taking a plane trip. And they don't speak the English any better than our Chinese lady friend. And so dear Yasmina, or Yeasmina, or whatever, is trying to explain that, no, she really she should buy the three pieces. And the Chinese lady is attempting to convey that no, her love of the fried chicken doesn't extend to three pieces. And we're really getting nowhere, and the line full of Chinese people and Tom is completely stalled.
And so my eyes are wandering, and I can't help but notice that prominently displayed, in the name of Allah the Most Merciful, is a certificate stating that all the chicken served in this Popeye's is Halal. And that this has been established because Islamic scholars inspected the chicken farm in nulle-part-de-fuck-butt, Quebec. Where, it would seem, the slaughter of chickens in conducted fully in accordance with Islamic law. And, one hopes, French language law, too.
And so with this issue eventually resolved, I'm upstairs eating my Halal fried chicken. And three Asian teenage girls make a point of taking turns posing, Japanese-tourist-style, for pictures. These would be pictures of them standing in the middle of the eating area. In Popeye's. At Yonge and Bloor.
And it's at this moment I realize that all this has been going on in a Cajun-themed restaurant, that's supposedly recreating the cuisine of the black folks in a colonial French-influenced area.
And that somewhere up there in the sky, Pierre Trudeau is pissing himself with joy.
And so there's this one older lady who really can't understand why it's cheaper to buy a three-piece meal when she only wants two pieces. And she's trying to make herself understood by the service staff. And all nasty latent xenophobia aside, she's really not doing this particularly well. And this is not being helped by the fact that the staff is all brown. Like, the really brown type of brown, that get looked at funny when they commit the crime of taking a plane trip. And they don't speak the English any better than our Chinese lady friend. And so dear Yasmina, or Yeasmina, or whatever, is trying to explain that, no, she really she should buy the three pieces. And the Chinese lady is attempting to convey that no, her love of the fried chicken doesn't extend to three pieces. And we're really getting nowhere, and the line full of Chinese people and Tom is completely stalled.
And so my eyes are wandering, and I can't help but notice that prominently displayed, in the name of Allah the Most Merciful, is a certificate stating that all the chicken served in this Popeye's is Halal. And that this has been established because Islamic scholars inspected the chicken farm in nulle-part-de-fuck-butt, Quebec. Where, it would seem, the slaughter of chickens in conducted fully in accordance with Islamic law. And, one hopes, French language law, too.
And so with this issue eventually resolved, I'm upstairs eating my Halal fried chicken. And three Asian teenage girls make a point of taking turns posing, Japanese-tourist-style, for pictures. These would be pictures of them standing in the middle of the eating area. In Popeye's. At Yonge and Bloor.
And it's at this moment I realize that all this has been going on in a Cajun-themed restaurant, that's supposedly recreating the cuisine of the black folks in a colonial French-influenced area.
And that somewhere up there in the sky, Pierre Trudeau is pissing himself with joy.
Labels: beef wif broccori, canada, fast food, nationalism, postnationalism, toronto
posted by Tom at 9:01 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home