Canadian Food, Centnoram, and the United States of Mexico
Marian Learns some Shocking Things About North America
“Papa, before my story, I have a question.”
“Sure; what is it?”
“What’s your favorite kind of American food?”
“That’s a very broad question, Marian. By ‘American,’ do you mean all of North America and all of South America?”
“No, I mean the United States, silly!”
“Are you talking about The United States of America or The United States of Mexico?”
“America, of course! That’s the United States!”
“Mexico is also called the United States—the United States of Mexico: Estados Unidos Mexicanos. I guess, more literally, it’s translated as “United Mexican States,” but they are still also the United States, right, Marian?”
“If you say so, Papa,” Marian sighed. She just wanted to know the answer to what she thought was a simple question, because she wanted to then tell her dad her favorite food, as a hint so that he would take her there more often. “OK, then,” she pushed on, “What’s your favorite kind of United States of America food?”
Marian’s father smiled. “That’s going to be a hard question to answer; there are so many: California cuisine, Southwest, Tex-Mex, Cajun, Creole, Soul Food—”
Most of those didn’t interest Marian’s palette; some she had never even heard of, or tried, as far as she remembered. She couldn’t hold it in any more and blurted out, “Mine’s Irish!”
“Irish? When have you ever had Irish food? Do you mean like mashed potatoes, corned beef and cabbage with Guinness mustard—”
“No, I mean cheeseburgers, French fries, McFlurrys—”
“Lots of places have cheeseburgers, Marian. And if French fries are what you like, then maybe it’s really French food that you prefer—or Belgian, really, come to think of it, as what we call French fries really come from Belgium (although they dip theirs in mayonnaise).”
“Yuck!”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Have you tried it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it sounds terrible.”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it!” Marian said, pleased with catching her father in an inconsistency.
“OK, you got me. But what’s this McFlurry you’re talking about? I thought McFlurry was the coach of the Green Bay Packers.”
“What?!?” Marian replied, arching her eyebrows and shaking her head in consternation.
“Never mind. Anyway, I think what you mean by ‘Irish food’ is fast food.”
“Janie’s dad calls it Irish food.”
“I think he’s just trying to make a joke. I’m getting the impression here, Marian, that you need to expand your culinary horizons.”
“Expand my cool what?”
“It’s my fault; I need to introduce you to a greater variety of cuisine. You asked about American food—which type was my favorite. Since America stretches all the way through North and South America—from Canada in the North to the southern tip of South American at the other end—I would say you should get to know the food in the middle.”
“Food in the middle?”
“Yes. There’s no need for you to try Canadian food, or anything south of Mexico.”
“Why not?”
“Too bland. Let’s stick with the excellent and tasty foods of Mexico and Centnoram.”
“Scent no ram? Is that a place where you can’t smell goats?”
“Good one, Marian, but no. Centnoram is my name for what some people call ‘America’ and others call ‘The United States of America’.”
“Why Centnoram?”
“Calling the country wherein we live ‘America’ is both inaccurate and self-centered. After all, America is, by definition, all of North America and all of South America—not to mention Central America (which I just did, and which is called apophasis)—”
At this Marian just wrinkled her brow, not caring enough about it to ask what apophasis meant.
Her dad continued: “So we shouldn’t call our country ‘America’ unless we’re OK with Ecuador and Panama calling themselves that, too.”
“OK, I get that, I guess, but what was that ‘scent no ram’ thing?”
“Centnoram. It’s spelled C-E-N-T-N-O-R-A-M.’ It’s short for CENTral NORth AMerica. What most call the United States (of America) is really located in the Central part of North America, between Canada to the north and Mexico to the south.”
“Mexico is part of North America?”
“Yes. And that is my favorite American food: Mexican. In fact, I would love it if someone were to construct a giant restaurant shaped like Mexico, laid out in 7 divisions, one for each of the styles of Mexican cuisine.”
“Isn’t all Mexican food the same?” Marian asked. “Tacos, Burritos, Nachos, Tamales, Enchiladas, Chimichangas, Churros, Fritos—”
“Oh, no, Marian, not at all. Each region of Mexico has its own style of food: the North, the North Pacific Coast, Bajio, the South, the South Pacific Coast, the Gulf, and Central Mexico.”
Marian was overwhelmed. It was too much to think of all at once. She asked, “What about Canada, to the north of us—what about trying out their food some time?”
“Have you ever seen a Canadian restaurant in the U.S., Marian?”
“No.”
“There’s a reason for that. For a restaurant featuring Canadian cuisine, all they would need is a small booth, because they only have a couple of national dishes.”
“Only a couple of dishes? What are they?”
“Moosehead beer and Maple Bar sandwiches.”
“Maple Bar sandwiches? I love Maple bars!”
“Who doesn’t like Maple bars, but for lunch and supper?”
“What’s in a Maple Bar sandwich? I mean, what’s in the middle of it?”
“Canadian Bacon.”
“Canadian Bacon—what’s that?”
“Ham.”
“Ham? Why don’t they just call it ham, then?”
“Because they had to have some food that featured the name of their country—or they thought they needed that, anyway. After all, most of their food is either British (in the west) or French (in the east); so they had nothing of their own that was really ‘Canadian.’ Except for those two items: Moosehead bear—or is it Elsinore?—and Maple bar sandwiches. Anyway, there’s no need for us to try Canadian restaurants.”
Marian had fallen asleep at some point during that exposition on Canadian cuisine. And so, Marian got no story that night. Maybe that was her plan.