Joanne Michael - It Takes Two

“Meaning?”

“Ever see a Russian factory ship?” Marc asked, and Abby shook her head. “Giant monster of a ship. One of those babies will haul in more fish in a week than the old Tadoussac fleet took in a season. As for the pollution and habitat destruction, take a look at your own government. But I guess it’s just easier to go after the little guys.”

“There’s a lot more to it than all that,” Abby said.

“You’re right. Because now this generation of fishermen and sailors have their own regs to deal with. Those boats out there? Most of them are charters for Saguenay River tours or whale watching. But thanks to a bunch of scientists, they’re about to be regulated out of business.”

“How so?” Abby asked.

“Our season’s a short one up here. The nine hundred of us living in Tadoussac have four months—June to October—to make enough money to last the year. But the rules for the guys running the boat tours have made it damn hard for them. Only so many are allowed per square hectare, and they can only get so close to a whale. That sort of thing.”

“So what’s your answer?”

“Leave us alone to take care of our river and bay,” Marc said, more loudly than he’d intended. Up ahead, Sylvie and Françoise stopped and turned around.

Marc took a deep breath, well aware he had no right to wage this verbal attack against Abby. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired of people who don’t even live here telling us how to run our lives.”

“I can see that.”

“Da-ad!” Sylvie called. “Hurry up!”

“We’re coming,” he said, and started walking with Abby. “Look, I know you have a job to do and I respect that, but if you can stand it, here’s a piece of free advice.”

Abby smiled. “I’m all ears.”

“While you’re here, take some time to get to know the people. Who knows? You might learn something.”

ABBY DIDN’T KNOW how to react to Marc’s attack on her profession. Fortunately, she was spared having to say anything thanks to Sylvie. Overjoyed to have an audience, the little girl kept up a constant stream of chatter during the rest of the ten-minute walk to the restaurant.

As Sylvie pointed out the various homes and businesses and where different side streets led, Abby mulled over Marc’s words. In her undergraduate work in marine biology and doctoral program in bioacoustics, she had come across numerous accounts of the decline of the Saint Lawrence fisheries, but she had to admit that Marc’s was the first version she had heard from the fishermen’s perspective.

Should she respond to his accusations? It was probably better to remain silent. She probably wouldn’t be seeing him much this summer anyway.

Sylvie announced they had reached Pierrette’s and led the way up the stairs.

Marc held the door for the women and Sylvie made a beeline for a table in the corner. “Can I get some poutine, Dad?” she asked before the adults had a chance to take their seats.

“How about we get a large order and share?” Marc said, sitting down next to his daughter. “You want to get in on this?” he asked Abby, who was seated opposite him.

“Sure, okay. What’s poutine?”

“What’s poutine?” Sylvie repeated in astonishment. “Everyone knows what poutine is!”

“Sylvie!” Marc and Françoise said in unison.

Sylvie picked up a menu and held it in front of her face. “I know, I know. Think it but don’t say it.”

“Poutine is a kind of French fries,” Marc said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I thought French fries were pommes frites,” Abby said.

“In Québec, poutine is our own special kind of fries,” Marc told her.

Abby shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

She opened her own menu and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was printed in French and English. A waitress appeared and it was obvious to Abby she knew the Doucettes.

“I’ll have the Caesar salad with grilled chicken and a cup of French onion soup, please,” Abby said, when the woman, who introduced herself as Claudine, turned to her, pen poised over her order pad.

“To drink?” Claudine asked.

“Iced tea?”

“That sounds really good,” Françoise said when it was her turn. “I’ll have the same, please.”

“Et tu?” Claudine said to Sylvie.

“Can I have a hamburger and chocolate milkshake, please?” the little girl said, looking at Marc.

“That’ll be a hamburger and a glass of white milk,” Marc amended. “I’ll have the roast chicken, please, and a cup of coffee.”

“Bon.” Claudine said and left, returning minutes later with their drinks.

Abby took a sip of her iced tea and looked around. Aside from their small party, the only other diners were a couple of teenagers in a booth and three young men sharing a pitcher of beer at a table by the window.

“Quiet place,” she said.

“Sure, right now it is,” Marc agreed. “But like everything else in this town, try getting in after the end of June.”

“What do people do here during the winter?” Abby asked.

Marc grinned. “Wait for spring.”

Claudine reappeared and set a steaming plate down in the middle of the table.

Abby had never seen anything quite like it. “Did we order this?”

“That’s the poutine,” Sylvie said happily, stabbing at the middle of the plate with her fork.

“Sylvie,” Marc said in a warning tone, “wait your turn, ma fille.”

“Sorry, Dad.” She withdrew the fork and looked at Abby.

“I thought you said poutine was French fries,” Abby said.

“The French fries are under the gravy,” Marc explained.

“And those little white—nuggets?” Abby knew she sounded skeptical.

“Cheese curds,” Françoise said.

Marc reached for her plate. “I guess you could call this a true Québecois delicacy.”

“Really.” Abby watched Marc scoop out a large portion of golden fries smothered in the brown gravy and ripe cheese curds onto her plate and set it down in front of her. “Funny, when I thought of Québecois delicacies, I pictured croissants, crepes and soufflés,” Abby said, looking suspiciously at the mound of poutine.

“Common mistake.” Marc passed a serving of the poutine to his mother and took Sylvie’s plate.

“We have all those things, of course,” Françoise said. “But poutine, it’s one of our own creations.”

Abby poked her fork tentatively at the gooey mass on her plate, unsure of when she had ever seen anything that looked so unappetizing. Not wanting to appear rude, she took a small bite. Her eyes widened and she smiled.

“It’s delicious,” she said, taking another, larger, forkful.

“Another convert,” Marc said triumphantly as Claudine brought the rest of the meal.

The remainder of the evening passed with the small talk of people getting to know each other. Abby deliberately avoided the touchy subject of her impending research, and Marc didn’t refer to it, either.

When the checks came, Marc snatched up Abby’s as well, before she could take it.

“No, I insist,” he said when she started to protest. “Your first meal out in Tadoussac is on me.”

“All right,” Abby said with a smile. “Thank you. But the next one’s on me.”

“Fair enough.”

IT WAS FULL DARK when the foursome walked out of the restaurant and the period streetlights lining the town’s main street were glowing in the light mist drifting in off the bay.

“I want to thank you again for supper,” Abby said to Marc as they made their way toward the Doucette home.

“My pleasure.” Marc knew he had to explain his earlier intensity, though he wasn’t about to apologize. “And look, I didn’t mean to offend you about the fishing regulations and all. It’s just, well, it’s something I feel pretty strongly about.”