Newfoundlanders' connection to this meat runs deep.

Warm and sunny weather is not what I was expecting as I stroll the streets of St John's, Newfoundland, off Canada's east coast. I'm even wearing sunscreen.
It's the final day of August and the city is awash with afternoon sunseekers; patio areas, decks and outdoor terraces teem with pink skin and cheery chatter.
At this point, I've already sampled locally brewed beers and decide a snack before dinner isn't a bad idea.
The Irish bar I walk into has all the usual cliches, but it's the menu that grabs my attention - namely, one dish.
Backyard, dive bar, gourmet or drive-through; I'm a fan of burgers. I'll eat them in any form and anywhere. But a moose burger?

"You've never had moose?" exclaims the bartender, even though my accent sticks out a mile. "It's tasty. If you don't like it, it's on the house."
Unbeknown to me, Newfoundlanders' connection to this meat runs deep. Initially introduced in New Brunswick in the early 20th century, the numbers of this large and distinct animal have skyrocketed. Hunting is commonplace for population control and the resulting meat is eaten widely - with or without a side of fries.
An immaculately constructed burger appears, oozing amber cheese beneath a smooth dome-like bun lid. I'm half expecting a gamey aroma, yet there is none - I'm readying myself for a bland taste or dry texture, but it never comes. Instead, my teeth sink through faultless layers of salt, fat and acid: delicious in every way.
It's a hybrid with the aroma of beef, the clean flavour of venison and pork-like succulence. The bartender skulks by my table to inspect an empty plate. "Where do you want me to pay?" I ask with a smile.




