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  "path": "/articles/fenway-parks-lobstah-poutine",
  "publishedAt": "2026-05-22T13:00:00.000Z",
  "site": "https://www.mcsweeneys.net",
  "textContent": "So you spent the last two hours fighting for your life trying to merge into aggressive traffic, avoid potholes, find the one open space in the parking garage near the T stop, and stay on your feet in a crammed Green Line train with no handholds, and now you’re going to sit your sorry ass in a rigid wooden seat for nine innings on a forty-fucking-degree night and watch your beloved team ground out into a double play more times than is even statistically imaginable.\n\nLadies and gentlemen, welcome to Fenway Park.\n\nHome of your underachieving Boston Red Sox, the holy cathedral of baseball, the Dartmouth green jewel box of New England, this most magical place on Earth is rooted in suffering, which I have to assume is the basis for their latest culinary affair: the Lobstah Poutine.\n\nBack in 1917, an explosion devastated the harbor of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The city of Boston shook its collective head, muttered “Are you kidding me, guy?” and quickly organized a relief ship to send aid, kicking off a century-long bromance that led our friendly French Canadian neighbors to the north to allow Boston to co-opt their regional delicacy. A traditional poutine consists of french fries and cheese curds drenched in hot gravy, but as one might expect from the city behind those horrible robot dogs in that _Black Mirror_ episode, Fenway has applied forward thinking and innovation to create something completely unnerving.\n\nWhile maintaining the integrity of the french-fry base, the cheese-curd experience has been replaced with lobster claws fresh from a plastic bag out of the mini fridge, and in a mind-blowing move of epicurean invention, the hot gravy has been swapped out for hot chowder. The rich mound is garnished with chopped scallions for an herby zip and bits of bacon because, I don’t know, they’re just adding things to add things?\n\nThe dish comes in a flimsy cardboard fishing boat that holds up impressively well for how heavy the Lobstah Poutine is. I’m talking heavy heavy, like as heavy as your heart feels every time you see that clip of Mookie Betts saying he wanted to stay in Boston his whole career. Credit where credit’s due, they aren’t scrimping with these hefty pieces of lobster claw, and honestly, they’d better not be at $39.00 plus tax, especially when you know that tax isn’t even going toward fixing the potholes that fucked up my car’s alignment on the way in here.\n\nGiven the poutine’s viscosity, I requested a fork from the vendor who served me. He responded, “The fuck you need a fork for? What are you, the Queen of England?” So I picked up a big chowdery lump of lobster with my fingers and took a bite. It tasted fresh, but was very cold. I took another bite. This one was piping hot. Every bite of Lobstah Poutine is a surprise. The biggest surprise of all was that, despite this being an establishment where young men traverse the stands selling clam chowder from a portable metal urn, our chefs chose to go with a potato chowder, presumably as a nod to everyone’s Irish uncle in Southie.\n\nThe Lobstah Poutine begs a few philosophical questions. Should food be soggy? Do flavors need to feel good inside my mouth? Why did I just give my hard-earned $39.00 to an organization that is intentionally tanking my team and exploiting America’s most beautiful tradition for their own avarice? It gives you something to noodle over while you’re stuck in traffic behind a Storrowed box truck.\n\nIt also begs the question “Who is this for?” and I think the answer to that one is obvious. This boatload of fridge leftovers is tailor-made for people who are gonna keep buying the jerseys of their favorite player, even though the very next day that player’s probably moving to LA, where they have parking lots and they pay their guys a billion dollars a year and the fans probably eat their french fries with a fucking fork, leaving us with a roster of random underdogs we’ve never heard of but are obligated to root for under the laws of genetic memory. Lobstah Poutine is for people who are built to suffer.\n\nAnd that leaves us with one last important question about Fenway Park’s Lobstah Poutine—is it good? To that, I can answer with confidence:\n\nWho the fuck cares? Since when does something have to be good for you to love it?",
  "title": "Reviews of New Food: Fenway Park’s Lobstah Poutine"
}