Sunday, April 23, 2006

Conspiracy I Tell You: Trip to Quebec Exposes Lies on All Fronts

So we went to Montreal yesterday. We had a wondeful time visiting Emily's sister and her husband in their new home. Angela (my sister-in-law) had recently worked as the main researcher for a book published by her pastor, Claude Houde, of L'Église Nouvelle Vie (The Church of the New Life). The book is called Les Mensonges du Code Da Vinci, or "The Lies of the Da Vinci Code." Houde wanted to write a book countering the CODE in French, while there are so many English out there. Although I cannot read it, I'm sure it's sound. Congratulations Angela Fay on her hard work! The church is the Montreal French cousin to David Wilkerson's New York church, of "Cross and the Switchblade" fame.

Another highlight of the trip was a visit to DUNKIN' DONUTS!! After four years in New Brunswick with nothing but Tim Horton's, which can't hold a candle, or, cruller, to DD, and with virtually none in Ontario, I enjoyed a stop at a Dunkin' Donuts in Quebec. My noisette coffee was delicious, and I got a vanille francais for Emily. Oh the memories of America. However, one thing was found askew...

Amidst all the standard donuts in the display case, plain, chocolate, jelly, etc. (all in French of course), there was one that seemed familiar but was called something else. It was a Boston Cream, yes, the ancient traditional donut, one of the patriarchs of donutia. Everyone knows the Boston Cream, most like Boston Creams, it's a safe donut choice. Being from the Boston area I'm proud that I can walk into a donut shop anywhere in the world and see a neat arrangement of Boston Cream donuts, paired up in parallel rows like a militia; minutemen training on the Boston Common.

Not in Quebec.

Big surprise...

No no no, it is not a Boston Cream in Quebec! Boston is far too English for the Quebecois, let's call it something else, something...more...cultured...more European... Yes... let us call it a...Costarde Parisienne!

You've gotta be kidding me.


Somewhere in Massachusetts, the dark boardroom at the Dunkin' Donuts Head Office. A dim light illumines chubby faces on either side of a conference table, two Quebecers sit across from the executives, who are pondering what was just suggested. "Trust us," repeat the two men with thick redneck-French accents, "No one will by dem if dey are called da Boston Crem. Do you want more riot blood on your hands like you had before you change da London Loop-d'-Loop to da French Cruller? Parisian Custard is what we must say. Costarde Parisienne, Parisienne... Parisienne... (echoes)
The execs sip their coffee.
(Fade to black)