Chez Pepe

Like most people - well, actually more than most people - I tend to actively construct a running mythology around the mundane.  By this I mean that as part of the mind-numbingly boring vapidity of getting through the day I build a more interesting self-text as narrative.  Part of it relates to following different paths, so instead of driving five minutes to get coffee and donuts at Dunkin Donuts here in Vermont it's preferable to drive an hour and a half to get to the closest Tim Horton's across the border in Canada (well, that and the fact that TH is much, much better than DD). As part of this fairly frequent quest - and, for that matter, as part of driving to Montreal to watch CFL action with the Alouettes - we've often driven past a little restaurant called Chez Pepe.  Over the last couple years we've turned Chez Pepe into a mythic place that would fit in quite naturally in a David Lynch film (think One Eyed Jack's, but with poutine).  We were on an airport run the other night and decided to finally stop at Chez Pepe, which turned out to be a lovely little family restaurant with great food.  The illusion was squashed, but we found another great place to eat and we'll definitely be back.

Lange posing with the iconic Chez Pepe sign.  Here in Vermont we're legally forbidden to have signs this ostentatious.

Smoked meat and poutine.  This, my friends, is Canada.

And somehow along the way we ended up down by the river at a great park that featured lighthouses.  I'm not certain how we arrived there, but we did find a Dairy Queen, which was much appreciated.  Way too many of my stories begin and end with food, although thankfully not kale.