Summer. 1998. I was working as an usher and merchandise clerk for the musical, Gabriel & Evangeline (based on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem, Evangeline). Lots of Acadian paraphernalia.

Including authentic Acadian cookbooks.

A tourbus from Louisiana has come to watch the play. Celebrating Cajun heritage, and whathaveyou. After the play, two old ladies come up to the merchandise counter. Six times my age, easily, between the two of them.

"What sorts of recipes are in that book?" they ask.

"Mostly it's for historical value. Weasel pie. Fried cod livers."

"Does it have a recipe for putain?" they ask.

They pronounce the word with a twang — poo-TENG.

I contain a laugh. "Er, I don't think you want to tell anyone back home about our putain," I manage tactfully. "I think you mean poutine." I draw the word out — poo-TEEN.

They stand there, looking at me quizzically.

I speak now in a hushed voice. "Putain is French for prostitute."

They laugh.