The Dinner: Poutine at Steelhead Diner (95 Pine Street)
The Movie: Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, at Pacific Place (600 Pine Street)
The Screenplate: Canada is a strange place. It's filled with left-handed pacifists who pronounce Dunkin' Donuts as "Tim Horton's" and put gravy on their french fries.
It's also where they filmed Scott Pilgrim vs. the World -- the CGI-assisted, graphic novel-adapted charmer starring chinless Michael Cera, also a Canuck. More specifically, the movie is set in Toronto. So in the spirit of tenuous connections between food and film, let's eat some fucking poutine, ya hosers!Poutine is, let's be real, a fantastic idea that America should have had first. And Steelhead does the dish proud.
Thin-cut fries with the perfect crispy-on-the-outside, fluffy-on-the-inside ratio. A pleasingly salty gravy that's thick enough to stick to your spud but not so much that it looks like sludge. The home-field advantage of fresh Beecher's cheese curds available right around the corner.
I'll confess, when I first spied the plate I thought the swanky diner near Pike Place had messed up the poutine. It looked too light. After a couple of childhood summers in Quebec spent not talking to pretty French-Canadian filles, I had this misguided idea that the gravy-curd combo was supposed to make it a soggy, three-napkin mess.
Turns out I was wrong. Because after consulting the sage shut-ins at Wikipedia, I realized that, despite the high concentration of lipids, poutine is supposed to be a light dish.
Speaking of light dishes (SEAMLESS TRANSITION ALERT), can we uncliche the terribly cliched phrase "the best time you'll have at the movies all year"? Cuz that totally applies to Scott Pilgrim.
(What would this uncliche'ing process look like, ya think? I'm imagining another episode of "Will It Blend?" Except instead of liquefying an iPad we'd blender ginsu the fuck out of film critic Gene Shalit. Just chop him up until there's nothing left but that patchwork quilt abortion of a bowtie and a yellowed stub from Harold and Maude. That oughta exorcise those demons.)
Will he blend?
Anyway, Scott Pilgrim is a 64-bit love story from the pop culture-addled brain of Edgar Wright, the man who hath delivered unto us Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, both most excellent.
Wright's movies have layers upon layers. Not of subtext or social commentary but of, well, stuff. Visual candy. And Scott Pilgrim is like that. It's Pixy Stix for your eyes, in the best possible way. It's sweet, it'll make you feel pleasantly hyper and for the half hour after you leave the theater you'll hallucinate little 1+UP markers flashing above the heads of people you pass on the street.
And if you're familiar with the blink-and-you'll-miss-it editing style from Wright's previous films, you won't be overwhelmed here. If you're not, just know that once you see an Edgar Wright movie, watching all other movies, now matter how fast-paced, will feel like seeing My Dinner With Andre after you've had too much Robitussin.
FUCK YOU, WALLACE YAWN. GIVE ME SOME QUICK-CUTS.
OK. So ya see how many different times the shot changed in those nine seconds? Picture that, only with a love story, Batman KA-POWS, and Macaulay Culkin's wisecracking little brother, who steals the movie as Scott Pilgrim's gay roommate.
Gene Shalit would have absolutely loved it. It's just too bad we blended him into a goo that looks like that poutine we had earlier. A shame, really.