I'll Be Here All Week by Anderson Ward Page B

knows; he’s never been one to tell the difference. Whatever it is, he likes it.
    â€œIt’s called a ‘toque,’ ” she says.
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA toque,” she says again. “That’s what we call hats here.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYou didn’t know that?” she asks.
    This makes him smile. Every Christmas he hears “The Twelve Days of Christmas” on the radio. It’s a Canadian novelty song that he’s heard since he was a kid. It was recorded by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas from SCTV. They mention “toques” in the song, and it always threw him off. He never knew what the hell a toque was until now. It’s nice to have the mystery solved.
    â€œSee?” he says. “Two minutes into the day and you’re already teaching me stuff about Canada I never would have learned otherwise. I wouldn’t have even thought to ask.”
    â€œThat’s what you’re impressed with? Finding out what a toque is?”
    â€œPretty much, yeah.”
    â€œNothing about Canadian history or politics,” she says. “You just want to know what we call things.”
    â€œWorks for me.”
    She holds up her hand. “This is a glove,” she says.
    â€œAlright, smart-ass,” he says, “where are we going to eat?”
    â€œI figured I’d leave that up to you,” she says.
    â€œMcDonald’s it is.”
    â€œSuch a charmer.”
    â€œOnly the best for you.”
    â€œAlright,” she says, “lunch is on me.”
    â€œShit.” He smiles. “In that case, take me to the most expensive place in this city. Nothing’s too good for us, I say.”
    â€œBurger King it is,” she says.
    â€œI prefer McDonald’s.”
    It’s the middle of the afternoon, and people are everywhere. As dozens of people scurry past them, no one seems to notice the shaggy-haired guy talking to the bespectacled woman bundled up in front of him. Even wearing a sweater and heavy overcoat, he looks underdressed compared to everyone else walking by. At least the locals are better prepared for the weather than he is. He’s still freezing.
    â€œOkay, more Canada,” Spence says.
    â€œThe first prime minister of Canada was John A. Macdonald,” she says.
    â€œScrew that,” he says. “I told you, no history. Just tell me what they call a quarter pounder with cheese here.”
    â€œIt’s called a quarter pounder with cheese.”
    â€œReally?” he asks. “I thought it was called a royale with cheese. Like in Pulp Fiction .”
    â€œThat’s France.”
    â€œBut Montreal is French, right?”
    She raises an eyebrow at him. “You really don’t know anything about Canada, do you?”
    â€œNope. That’s why you’re not allowed to give me any history lessons. I like to be as ignorant about Canada as possible. You know, just like the rest of America is.”
    â€œMission accomplished,” she says.
    She takes his arm and leads him while making it seem like he’s doing the leading. They walk down the street that way for a couple of blocks. It’s odd to him that it doesn’t feel odd to him. He likes walking with her and likes her on his arm. He also likes her near him because her body helps shield him from the wind. No one told him Montreal was so windy.
    â€œIt just hit me,” she says and comes to a stop. “We’re going to eat at Manny’s.”
    â€œWhat kind of place is it?” he asks.
    â€œWell, it’s kinda like any other sandwich place, but we’re going to get you some poutine.”
    â€œPou-what?” he says. The name sounds like an accident.
    â€œ Poo-TEEN, ” she says slowly. “It’s food.”
    â€œIt sounds like an intestinal problem.”
    â€œIt’s one hundred percent Canadian, and it’s yummy. The perfect lunch lesson for you today, Mister