Gigantic Poutine Pile

Dump it into a casserole pan and place it in the oven. Turn the oven on to 325 and walk away. Return 20 minutes later, pull it out, and let the dancing commence.

ON THE TABLE: Gigantic Poutine Pile. You down with G.P.P.? Yeah, you know me.

HEIGHT: I'd estimate four inches. It was easily the shortest Fat Pants Friday I've had, but it's not like Joe Pesci's characters were ever pushovers.

WEIGHT: A lot. The first thing that comes to mind is "potato shot-put."

TOP TO BOTTOM: Green garnishy stuff, fries, fries, cheese, gravy, what I believe were sausage bits, fries, fries, jalapeno poppers, tater tots, bacon bits, fries, fries, PEAS (WTF?), and fries.

HOW HEALTHY IS IT? Potatoes are vegetables. This is probably the closest I've come this year to eating a vegetarian dish.

ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT: Everyone, from our waitress to the crowd at the next table, wondered how on Earth that would taste any good re-heated. You can't re-heat fries, they say. It ruins them, they say.

Listen: you're talking to a guy who once shoved a Lego so far up his nose, he had to go to the hospital. Don't tell me what I can and can't do.

WHO'S WITH ME?: Hornish! We hit road work, we hit Lucid, we hit road work, we hit 6Smith, we hit road work, the end.

ONE HOUR EARLIER: Road work.

TWO HOURS EARLIER: Road work.

THREE HOURS EARLIER: Road work.

You see, Southbound 494 is bring torn up for no discernible purpose than my inconvenience. Northbound 494 is halved by a miles-long divider that gets moved during the day ... and it's done in such a way that northbound is one lane when I'm driving northbound to work, and southbound is one lane when I'm driving southbound back home. I hate everything.

WHAT'S IN THAT GLASS? Surly Furious. Get it? Road work.

PLAY-BY-PLAY: Hornish backed out of the Pantsing, opting instead for the panko-crusted mac, stoner fries (actual menu name), and calamari. Because I ate my self-control years ago, I nearly filled myself up on the apps and put on a pathetic display when Fat Pants arrived. I did get a cool picture, at least.

Attack

Was there leftover mac and calamari, though? Yes. And did it get mixed in with the poutine for a mega-munchie the next morning? Of course!

GRADE: Eschewing the sandwich model for this was noble, but there's an element of awe that can only be captured by hoisting an obscenely-tall sandwich. That aside, great dish -- well, except for the peas. Fortunately, they stood out easily enough to be picked away without issue.

ADDENDUM: When I asked if the owner was there that night (just to say hi, nothing bad), the waitress asked who I was and I said, "Just some yak-off." When the poutine was taken for packaging, it came back in a box with "FAT PANTS FRIDAY - YAK-OFF - 4/24/15" written on top.

You know you've made it with a restaurant when the to-go boxes are calling you names.

The end.

Previous Fatterdays
Ep. 1: Couples Therapy

Top Burger

Editor's note: This is the beginning of an ongoing series recounting my collisions with 6Smith's Fat Pants Friday creations. With all the press 6Smith is getting for their patio, their Mother's Day brunch, and their menu, I think it's also important to remind everyone that you can also leave here with three different-colored sauces on your face.

My wife posted this picture to my Facebook wall Thursday and joked about how she and her sister mirror this almost completely.

Pick

I say "almost completely" because she gave me a live demonstration at 6Smith. This is the risk you take: You need to come hungry on Fat Pants Friday, which means you have to walk certain tightropes.

ON THE TABLE
Name: The name of this one wasn't posted on its Facebook page. I'm retroactively naming this burger "Couples Therapy."

Height: About eight inches, but I didn't bring a tape measure.

Weight: Two pounds? I didn't bring a food scale, either.

Top to Bottom: Bun, bleu cheese, lettuce, onions, egg, bacon, cheese, burger, buffalo sauce, fried chicken breast, cheese, burger, bun. Seriously, the only thing missing was the Double Dare flag.

How healthy is it?: I don't care if it was fried: Chicken is chicken and chicken is protein and protein is healthy. Also, it came with asparagus. It was probably under 100 calories.

Environmental impact: It was too busy for anyone to notice what I was eating (more on this in a moment).

Empty Plate

AT THE TABLE
One hour earlier:
If it was anything like my typical afternoon, I was standing outside next to a pile of dog crap for 10 minutes because I can never get the disposal bags open. At least it was nice out.

Who's with me? The missus came in all her blue-eyed, red-nailed, volcanically hangry glory. With 6Smith ambushed by Wayzata Bay-walkers, uncharacteristically slow service meant my wife had time to ignite three or four mini-fights between sit-down and chew-up (more on this in a moment).

What's in that glass?: Oskar Blues Momma's Little Yella Pils, and I needed it.

Play-by-Play: A foursome of duck wantons preceded our burgers' arrival, three of which my wife eliminated.

The buffalo chicken breasts were bone-in and had to be eaten separately. For my heat-sensitive wife, it meant passing the cluck over to me. Without it, my wife cleaned her plate. It was an awe-striking exhibition. I wish I could've recorded it. It was one of those things that make me happy I married her.

With her piece of chicken, however, I was filled to capacity with about a fourth of my burger left. I like to think I'd have crushed it without the extra, but we're not in that world. That's not to take anything from what my wife accomplished: Picture that burger without the chicken, and it's still pretty damn imposing.

Grade: This was my favorite Fat Pants to date. It had everything I could have hoped for on a single plate. I'd gladly take a bucket of that chicken, or the bacon for that matter.

Addendum: The owner saw my wife's frustration during the wait and personally apologized, even taking $15 off our bill. Sudden spikes in traffic happen, but one thing restaurants can control is response. This was an example of business done right.

Pitchfork

I wasn't expecting three miles.

When I told my mother-in-law I would just walk from Casanova's Beer Cave Festival to her home afterward, I wasn't expecting three miles. I thought one-and-a-half, two tops. I also wasn't expecting sunshine and 60 degrees. I was expecting a mildly strenuous hike through gently heated air ... you know, what we get at this time of year.

Instead, I trudged uuuup Coulee Rd., uuuup Carmichael Rd., and into the house. I crumpled up on the couch and flicked on ESPN. I was greeted by the gravelly rumble of Stephen A. Smith, talking through a mouthful of Floyd Meayweather's cojones, and a whippet stomping all over my body.

*****

I met this dude a few years back who ... oh, geez, it might have been during our introduction, even ... boasted about a Facebook status he'd posted that garnered 30-some comments. I was confused: I wasn't angry, I wasn't envious, but I was something. Looking back, I guess I'd say pity.

Fast-forward and teleport over to the Deschutes tent at this festival. Pasted all over their tables were fliers flaunting their RateBeer scores. Is this the same as when restaurants headline their Groupon voucher descriptions with "1,300 Facebook likes!"? Positive ratings and Facebook likes are readily available for sale now. What's the big deal?

I asked for a glass of their Fresh Squeezed IPA. I enjoy it regularly, and it scores a Joe Cool 99 on RateBeer.

Cave Entry

You can tell they've done this before at Casanova. It was laid out perfectly, and I don't mean that in the figurative sense.

Dozens of outfits, hundreds of people, a stage, and a row of biffies were intricately fit into a square footage barely bigger than that of my apartment. They didn't even need to block off the street, which floored me. There was the occasional belly dance through bystanders, of course, and I had to hit a few holes like Bo Jackson in Tecmo Bowl, but it was the most organized gathering I've seen for its acreage.

An aside that matters: The history of Casanova is worth a read.

The cave paths were also well-defined: Selfies against the left wall, samples against the right, and the line snaked through between. It was out the entrance I watched the first bona fide drunk amble by. You know the type: Floppy cheap sweatshirt, probably a freebie from a construction company; gray hairs running for their lives from under a sweaty crapped-up cap; gait of a wannabe gangster teen, turned Tommyknocker. His gaze was just empty. At least his glass had some lacing.

That was the only man I could point at and say confidently, "He barfs tonight." It seems Nova's drinkers can handle what they put down. That kind of community is a nice one to drink around.

*****

 I snapped a picture of a tripel next to my glass and of course someone spoke up.

"Untappd?" he said.
"Nope," I said.
"Instagram?"
"Nope." I told him the truth: A friend bought a bottle of this for me, and going to send the picture to her. I hadn't drank her bottle because I wanted to save it. The rep overheard me and told me I shouldn't be doing that with this beer.

Pretty much every beer I have in my cellar, I've been told at one point or another I shouldn't be aging. I'm still learning, maaaan!

I haven't sent her the picture yet, and don't plan to. What the hell point is there sending a tweet like "@CheyCab Look, it's the beer you bought me. I haven't drank that bottle yet but I tried it at @CasanovaLiquor #BeerCaveFest @Beersies #beer." Imagine if that was YOUR 2-3 seconds that were flitted away by that literary jalopy.

My point is, I don't need Untappd to remind me what beers were memorable ... because I'd, you know, remember them.

Let's take Pitchfork's barley wine, for instance. It was a barley wine without everything I generally hate about barley wine.  It was smooth, refreshing, and it hid every bit of its 13-percent alcohol content. I don't think they gave it a name, but I'm naming it Action Bronson. On an afternoon that saw plenty of barleywines poured, Pitchfork's was a Pegasus among donkeys.

Stillwater's Batch 800, also very nice. Oliphant's brown sugar brown ale, I could've drank that the rest of the afternoon but I had three frickin' miles to walk.

The end.