Why a chicken coup has Quebecers squawking
Pride in St-Hubert has always been about more than the food
It is one of the burdens of nationhood. A chain of chicken restaurants from Ontario buys a chain of chicken restaurants from Quebec. Threats, cries and laments follow — and some humour, too.
To the nationalists, the sale of Les Rôtisseries St-Hubert of Laval to Swiss Chalet (owned by Cara Operations Ltd.) of Vaughan is the greatest calamity since the Plains of Abraham.
It is hard to know who is funnier in this little imbroglio. Is it Pierre Karl Péladeau, the dour leader of the Parti Québécois, or François Legault, the leader of the party with the appropriate if infelicitous acronym, CAQ? As the sky falls, both audition for Chicken Little.
Or is it reports of the sale, which we might call Chicken Lite? In one short story, The Canadian Press managed to work in “feathers ruffled,” “flying the coop,” “crying foul” and a government “roasted” and “grilled.”
The only incongruous reference was to St-Hubert as a “cash cow”; after all that chicken, vulpine tendencies overwhelmed the writer, who will surely win a National Newspaper Award.
All this reflects something more: the enduring sensitivities around institutions in Canada, especially related to cuisine and commerce, especially in Quebec. It reminds us of the people we are.
St-Hubert is a cultural icon in Quebec. Founded in 1951, it has grown to 117 restaurants and express outlets, with 10,000 employees. This is a brilliant business, built on chicken.
In Quebec, barbecue chicken has taken its place beside its other foods: bagels, smoked meat, poutine. Whatever their origins, someone with an idea learned how to make them better and cheaper, then to market and merchandise them aggressively.
So it was with St-Hubert. To those raised in Quebec in the 1960s and 1970s, its chicken was another example of the superiority of Montreal over Toronto — beginning with hockey.
In Toronto, the refugees from Montreal would stun our parochial colleagues by gathering around a desk in the newsroom, usually at noon, and crooning the television jingle we knew as children — recalling the ubiquitous, bright-yellow Volkswagens (the first chain to offer free delivery) roaming the streets. This was branding.
“Ring-a-ling-a-ling it’s all you do,” it went. “Putt, putt, putt ... St-Hubert Bar-Be-Cue!”
As there was no contest on the ice between the Leafs and Canadiens, there was none on the table. When it came to St-Hubert and Swiss Chalet, which I discovered on moving to Ontario (where it had been safely sequestered), the winner was obvious.
At St-Hubert, decor matters. Lighting, colour, wood panelling and bistro banquettes suggest something more than casual dining, which it is. In appearance, early Swiss Chalet seemed clinical and dull, much as Montrealers saw Toronto.
Really, though, it was — and is — the food. The chicken at St-Hubert is moist and aromatic. The french fries are crisp. The bun is chewy. And the sauce — oh, the sauce — is tangy and mellifluous.
Then there is the coleslaw, which comes with every meal. Creamy or (vinegar) traditional? As the great Jean Béliveau used to say of other existential questions: “There is no doubt.”
Traditional, traditional, traditional.
It is said that the clientele of St-Hubert is aging, that it was in danger of going the way of Howard Johnson’s, another failed institution. Not really. But St-Hubert reflects so many things — Christmas, winter, trains, natural fibres, modest politicians, Saturday mail, Sunday newspapers — that are passé.
It’s the chicken we used to know.
This isn’t to say that Swiss Chalet is bad; actually, it’s quite good. But like Molson Canadian, Harvey’s hamburgers and Tim Hortons’ doughnuts (the most embarrassing of national symbols) and other mediocre things, if we did not have them today, we would not invent them.
In Canada, which doesn’t stretch enough, St-Hubert is a saintly alchemy of ambition, instinct, excellence and success. It’s about more than chicken. It’s about us.