The Secret Life of Leftovers — The New Atlantis

Sign in or Subscribe Now for audio version Recently, I had a hard time focusing on what would otherwise have been a very nice date if I hadn’t been constantly sneaking lustful glances at the foot-tall pile of poutine on the table next to ours. It took two waiters to carry it out, trailing steam and the smell of fried duck fat into the cold Manhattan night. They served it on a stand with a built-in moat, designed to catch avalanches of oozing cheese and golden-fried carbs as they topped the whole thing off with a bucket of gravy.