Poutine — that’s what needs a tariff on it

One of the last Schlitz taverns in Chicago. (Photo: Chris Pretorius)

28 Mar 2025

Oh and Buffalo wings (yes, they’re from actual Buffalo, New York state). And white-haired old hippies in ponytails wearing tie dye in the hippie netherworld that is Woodstock today. Yep, we were on a trip through the Midwest to get my kid back to college.

In early January I helped my son Willem drive from Chicago to his college in upstate New York, a 19-hour drive. Here in the US, in case you were wondering, college refers to a school for undergraduates, whereas universities, on the other hand, offer graduate courses as well.

We usually take Interstate 80, which starts in New Jersey and runs west through New York, Chicago, Colorado, all the way to San Francisco, 4,668km of it. Quite a stretch.

Our first day is usually from Illinois east through northern Indiana, Ohio, past Cleveland, western Pennsylvania, then to Buffalo in New York State right up by the Canadian border and Niagara Falls. The next day we follow the Erie Canal and then south down the Hudson Valley to Willem’s college on the banks of the Hudson River, about two hours north of New York City.

It was midmorning as we were slogging through Indiana, the most boring part of the drive (think northern Vrystaat around Kroonstad) when we noticed electronic road signs warning of dangerous blizzard conditions ahead. Like what the hell, the sky seemed clear and the weather app on my phone mentioned possible snow showers, nothing about a blizzard. But every few kilometres there were snowplows idling by the side of the road. Maybe they were just trying to earn overtime.

Shores of Lake Michigan. (Photo: Chris Pretorius)

Then just as we got to the Ohio border, the sky suddenly darkened and within minutes we were in total whiteout. If you haven’t driven in that, take it from me. Scary shit. The highway was suddenly reduced to one lane with two barely visible tracks that we had to follow at a snail’s pace. Semi trucks that had gone into skids dotted the side of the road. Where were the snowplows when you needed them? Perhaps the road crews in Ohio didn’t get the memo.

Finally, as we crossed into Pennsylvania, the road was salted and plowed. Okay, so these dudes did get the memo. The blizzard, however, continued through the day into the night. By the time we got to Buffalo New York we were nervous wrecks after hours of slippery white-knuckle crawling. I was hoping that, like the Swiss, they had those slobbery dogs there that come trotting up to weary travellers with a keg of hooch strapped around their necks. No such luck, of course.

So the reason the blizzard didn’t show up on the weather app was because technically it wasn’t really a blizzard, but lake effect snow, something peculiar to the Great Lakes. Freezing air blows down from the arctic across the warmer waters of the lakes, turns the rising condensation into snow, and dumps it on the southern shores of the lakes. Apparently it’s extremely hard to predict with any accuracy. Well, we found that out.

We stayed over in Buffalo for the night and of course Willem insisted on Buffalo wings for dinner because we were, yes, in Buffalo where Buffalo wings apparently originated back in 1964. Anyway, that’s the story, and like most food origin stories, it’s probably to be taken with a huge pinch of salt. But hey, wings are about the only thing Buffalo has going for it so I wasn’t going to rain on the parade. And of course Willem insisted on poutine as a starter, being right on the Canadian border.

Willem chowing Poutine in Buffalo, left and, right, a bloody Bloody Mary at the airport. (Photo: Chris Pretorius)

If you don’t know what poutine is, ignorance is bliss. But for the more curious souls, it’s slap chips and cheese curds covered in gravy, originally from Quebec but popular all along the Upper Midwest. Now if ever there was a Canadian export that deserves a tariff slapped on it, poutine is it. Should have stayed north of the border in my opinion. Probably the blandest dish on the planet.

Unfortunately, cheese curds are also a big thing in Wisconsin. Cheese curds being fried nuggets of curdled milk. Every tavern you walk into has them in little plates sitting on the bar counter. But I’ll say this, apart from the bloody curds Wisconsin cheese is excellent. Forget about east coast Vermont cheese. As a matter of fact, if Wisconsin were a country, it would be the world’s fifth largest cheese producer, right behind France.

The next morning the snow was still going strong and reached up to our knees as we started the last leg of our journey. At least the New York State types were on top of things and the roads were plowed and salted. After a few more hours of whiteout driving but clear roads, the sky suddenly cleared and we found ourselves driving south along a cold but sunny Hudson Valley, an hour away from Willem’s college on the east bank of the river.

A restored German farmstead in Wisconsin dating to around 1850. (Photo: Chris Pretorius)

Actually, Willem’s college is directly east across the Hudson from Woodstock. Yep, THE Woodstock. Last year I went there with Willem on one of his second-hand clothing forages, and let me tell you it was like entering the Twilight Zone. Scary. Never seen so many gray-haired dudes with ponytails in one place before. And everybody was wearing tie dye. And of course it was crowded with shops selling candles, beads, incense and honey. And blasting The Grateful Dead.

I was like, forget the clothes shopping and just get me the hell out of here, terrified that we would get a flat tyre or something and get stuck in this hippie netherworld. I could feel my vision starting to blur. Who knew there were so many hippies still around. The good news is that they’re pushing their seventies and eighties, so you know. I shouldn’t be mean to hippies, I suppose.

Anyway, what’s fascinating to an Afrikaans boy from Pretoria like me is that for nearly two days we drove along the southern shores of first Lake Michigan, then lakes Erie and Ontario. Gives you an idea of just how damn big these lakes are. We’re not talking Hartebeespoort or Vaal dams here. They contain more than 20% of the fresh water on the planet. If you stretch out their coastline, it’s actually longer than either the Atlantic or Pacific coasts of the US, and up here people often refer to the “Third Coast”.

During the 19th century the states bordering the Great Lakes were mostly settled by Germans and Scandinavians, the only people crazy enough to survive the harsh winters. To most Americans the Midwest is not clearly identifiable like the South with its southern cuisine, or New England, or the west coast, or Texas and the southwest with their Tex-Mex food.

Although it’s quite densely populated and the heartland of American farming, to most Americans it’s a place you fly over, like the Free State. But having lived in Chicago located right in the centre of it for 35 years now, it’s grown on me. When people talk about American food, for instance, the focus is always on one of the other regions and the Midwest gets totally ignored, which, to be honest, suits most Midwesterners just fine. None of that cloying southern charm, hectic New York shit, or Texas bombast. A waste of energy. I think it has to do with the harsh winters.

Chicago’s food scene gets totally ignored, but it’s actually one of the most vibrant in the US. Look no further than the TV show “The Bear”. There are many reasons for the thriving restaurant scene. It’s a big densely populated city, not spread out like most American cities. And like Boston and New York it has a good train system, so people can get around and walk without having to drive everywhere and find parking.

My back porch in winter. Clearly why Scandinavian and Baltic people migrated to the Upper Midwest. (Photo: Chris Pretorius

And it has neighborhoods, so after going to a restaurant, you can go to a bar next door, and then see a music concert two blocks away. Rents are much lower than LA or New York so it’s attractive to young chefs who want to open venues and experiment and not have to deal with the pressure of LA and New York. But for some reason Chicago always flies under the radar.

I was listening to a podcast recently about the history of hotdogs and it was all New York and Coney Island and on and on. But in fact, Chicago was a leader in hotdog production from the start. Just think of Oscar Meyer, the largest hot dog and lunch meat producer in the US. Yep, German immigrants from Chicago.

Hot dogs can be traced back to the creation of the finely ground mortadella bologna sausage in 16th century Italy. The Germans were quick to follow and hotdog-type sausages were mentioned in 17th century German cookbooks. In 1825 a sausage maker’s manual addressed the difference between Wiener Wurst and Frankfurter Wurst. Well, they were basically the same, except Viennas were pork only and Franks were a mixture of pork and beef.

The earliest mention of hotdogs in America is in a German-language newspaper from the Midwest in 1866. So put that on your roll and eat it, Coney Island.

I think it’s been forgotten that Chicago was the grain and meat hub of the US. When refrigerated rail cars were invented in the 1870s, Chicago could ship fresh meat to the East Coast. And beer. Don’t forget beer. Until Prohibition was declared, Milwaukee, Chicago and Cincinnati were the brewing capitals of the US. Because of the cold climate, lager became the dominant style of beer because it has to ferment in cool temperatures. And the beer companies had taverns on every corner. Some of them are still around in Chicago. When I first got to Chicago, there were still a few original Schlitz taverns, now, except for one, sadly all gone.

One of the last Schlitz taverns in Chicago. (Photo: Chris Pretorius)

While I was looking into the hotdog issue, I came across another interesting tidbit. It’s commonly assumed that fried chicken is a southern dish, basically an African-American invention that found its way north during the great migration. Turns out to be not quite true. It is true that fried chicken was important in southern African-American cuisine, but it’s also true that fried chicken was a staple in Midwestern German households way before the Great Migration.

The earliest mention of fried chicken is in a Viennese manuscript dating from the 14th century. The earliest fried chicken recipe can be found in a German cookbook from 1699. Germans arrived in Jamestown in 1608 and it’s quite likely that their kitchens were staffed by enslaved black people who eventually made fried chicken their own.

Later, when Germans started arriving in the Midwest, they brought fried chicken with them, which by that time had become a popular street food in Germany. So, anyway, it’s complicated. It’s not that I’m trying to belittle the African-American contribution to American cooking. It’s just that things aren’t always what they seem regarding the origins of specific dishes.

I’m very sceptical of claims of authenticity when it comes to food. Because most of the time, once you start digging a little, those claims turn out to be bullshit anyway. Like the blizzard that wasn’t a blizzard.

I prefer to think of cooking as a social activity that binds us all together, rather than bickering and feuding over claims of origin and authenticity of foods. Believe me, it happens. I was going to include words like “celebrating” and “sharing” in the sentence above but I just can’t bring myself to go down that path.

Mind you, let me take that back. Cooking is sharing. Cook with what you have on hand, who cares if the ingredients are authentic or not. You’re cooking, and you’re sitting down and eating and conversing with people who are dear to you. That’s all the authenticity you need. The rest is just noise. Let’s not forget that civilisation developed around food back when they didn’t even understand the concept of authenticity. But then again, civilisation has used food to erect barriers. On the other hand, food has also been used to transcend borders. In the end, whose food is it anyway? But what do I know?

Oh dear, where was I? Okay, we crossed the Hudson River on the Rip van Winkle bridge and finally got to Willem’s college where I spent the next two days helping him to move into his new off-campus apartment that he’s sharing with two friends (I don’t want to even think about what they’re going to get up to), then found myself on a two-hour train ride down to New York, home to all them food-history-challenged snobs. And it is an amazing train ride. Willem came with us just for fun. The railway line hugs the waters of the Hudson River all the way to Manhattan where finally it goes underground to Grand Central station. From there a cab to La Guardia and a Bloody Mary.

It’s weird. I’m obsessed with airport Bloody Marys. I’ve had many fancy Bloody Marys in many fancy cocktail lounges but plain old airport Bloody Marys beat them hands down. A ready mix airport Bloody Mary is bloody perfect because that’s the comfort I need at that moment, and that’s what it’s all about.

Like old Pavlov’s mutt I start salivating for a Bloody Mary the moment I get my boarding pass printed out. Oh well. I had my airport Bloody Mary and finally got my ass out of Yankee land and back to the plain old Midwest. I did not have an airport hotdog though, because I actually can’t stand hotdogs. So why write about them? I think I got jinxed by my editor. Sneaky bliksems, those. Anyway, ciao, as we used to say in those dark, distant tie-dyed days. DM

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