Brian Freedman damns the Blind Pig to mediocrity but does have an interesting way of praising the poutine.
Poutine came a lot closer to hitting its notes. The best versions of this totemic late-night drunk food tend to be defined by their reckless sense of lustiness. Well-assembled poutine is the early career Britney Spears of the junk-food world: You feel kind of dirty for thinking about it as much as you do, but you’re powerless to stop yourself once you give in to its easy, saucy allure. And if this one wasn’t a revelation, it was nonetheless a more-than-enjoyable dish, not to mention a deeply personal one: The curds, appropriately squeaky against the teeth, are produced by the chef’s daughter’s godfather in Amityville. Heart-stopping food is rarely this heart-warming.