La Joie de Montréal

I’ve always dreamed of spontaneous road trips to exciting cities with equally exciting friends. This weekend, my dream was realized. Early Saturday morning, my friends and I piled into SRB‘s car and headed to Montreal.

Montreal, one of the largest French-speaking city outside of France, the city of smoked meat and designer fashion, Canada’s cultural capital, and the birthplace of the Montreal bagel.
For us, it was a city with all this and more. It was a city where you can buy wine and beer from any dépanneur (convenient store), of which there were many. Suddenly, we were no longer constrained by the short hours and sparse locations of the LCBO (the only licensed retailer of alcohol in Ontario) when we felt like filling up with wine instead of food. It was a city where you couldn’t turn right on red lights. It was a city where we were immediately identifiable as aliens because we spoke English¹. It was a city where there was a boulangerie (bakery) on almost every street, and every single one was better than any bakery I’ve ever walked into in The City. It was a city where people were better dressed, better dined, and better wined.

We arrived in the city around noon, and immediately headed to Schwartz’s for some of Montreal’s famous smoked meat. The place was tiny and packed and there was an equally long line-up for both eat-in and take-out. Apparently, this was normal for Schwartz’s at any hour of the day. We managed to cram ourselves in and ordered two heaping platefuls of smoked meat.



Unfortunately, I wasn’t too impressed by the smoked meat. The slices were fat and rather thick, although it definitely had the famous smoky flavour. I personally preferred the smoked meat at Dunn’s that I’d had on a previous trip to Montreal (but that might be influenced by the fact that I was slightly drunk when I’d stumbled into Dunn’s at 2 in the morning).
After lunch, we had some time to kill before check-in, so we strolled up and down Saint-Laurent Boulevard. I counted at least three bakeries on one block, and each of them looked better than the last (I made a mental note to buy some baguette at some point but in the end, I didn’t get a chance to). I tried on a dress with a price tag of a whopping $1000 in u&i, apparently by some Swedish designer. Then I tried on another dress by the same designer for a slightly cheaper price of only $850! Both of them looked terrible on me, possibly because I’m not a stick-thin, 5’10 Finnish supermodel.

After checking in to our hotel, we took the subway to Old Montreal. This is the oldest part of the city, started in 1605 when Samuel de Champlain first set up a trading port by the Saint Laurence River. This is also my favourite part of Montreal (possibly of Canada). The streets are gorgeous, and nothing could make me feel closer to Europe. There were cobblestone paths and horse-drawn carriages and street performers. There were hordes of pedestrians, there were narrow store fronts packed into small streets, and there were tons and tons and tons of restaurants.


We picked a particularly excellent restaurant, called Jardin Nelson, for dinner. This restaurant is one of the most beautiful in Old Montreal because it literally has a garden in the back. And it’s huge! It’s a two-layer courtyard with large umbrella canopies and hanging potted plants and live music. The menu mostly consists of meal crepes (as opposed to dessert crepes) such as seafood and veal and even rabbit meat²! We had white wine sangria with dinner, and I was once again reminded of why I loved the French. Not only are they famous cooks and even more famous romantics, they’re famous drunks. But in a classy kind of way. Alcohol, especially wine, seemed so plentiful and accessible here. The prices were cheaper and the quality was better. Yum!
After dinner, we walked around Vieux Port, but it was raining on and off, so there were fewer people on the streets. We headed back to our hotel to regroup, and then walked along Saint Catherine where we happened upon a Nascar party of some sort. The street was closed off to cars and there was a concert going on. It was too crowded and noisy for us though (we kept losing members of our group), so we ended up heading to Rue Peel where the infamous Peel Pub was. Infamous because it had some of the cheapest drinks that I’d ever known (although I found out later that there was a taco place with $1 beers).

After several rounds of shots, a pitcher of rum and coke, and a couple of beers (and a tab that only amounted to about $10 per person), SSS and I were sufficiently buzzed. We decided we were bored of sitting around in the loud, cramped bar and ran out. We flew down the street, hand in hand, nearly knocking over a group doing the Amazing Race. Eventually, we ran out of steam, and by the time we walked back to Peel Pub, were awfully sober.

Sunday morning, I got up bright and early to exercise and shower before the rest of my friends stirred. We didn’t make it out of our hotel until 11, and headed straight to Chinatown looking for dim sum. We didn’t find dim sum, but we did find a Cantonese restaurant peculiarly named “Beijing.” I was immediately put off by the fact that the waiter did not speak a word of Mandarin (strictly Cantonese) – what kind of “Beijing” is that? The food was sub-par, except for the seafood chow mein that WAF ordered. Disappointed, we left Chinatown and walked to Rue Sainte-Catherine, famous for its shopping. Most of the shops were having sales (although some stores were too expensive for me even with the sales), so I bought a couple items of clothing. I tried to restrain myself though, because I was pretty broke as it was – but it was hard with all that gorgeous clothing around me. Of all Canadians, Montrealers definitely have the best taste in fashion. The most memorable store was Simons, this huge complex housing local designer fashion. It was so big and intimidating that I hovered near the rack closest to the door for half an hour before WAF pulled me deeper inside. Did I succumb to the cute pink headbands and polka-dot skirts? Not really. I did buy one school-girl-esque skirt with a black lace fringe for an undiscounted price of $29, which wasn’t too bad. After I tried it on, I just couldn’t put it back! Afterwards, I didn’t try on a single item of clothing, for fear that I might bankrupt myself in Simons.

That night, we separated for dinner because WAF and SRB wanted to have a romantic dinner at a seafood restaurant (I was turned off when I heard the name “Oyster Shack”), and SSS was having Mexican food with a friend I did not care for. Since I disliked both seafood and Mexican food, PGB and I went to have dinner ourselves. We ended up going to O Noir, which was the best decision of my life. O Noir is a restaurant where you eat in complete darkness. No, not a darkened room, a completely pitch black room. I could not see any better with my eyes closed as opened. I could only use my other senses, my sense of hearing, smell, and touch. It was unbelievable. We were really lucky because we’d checked with them earlier and they were all booked up for the entire weekend, but then we decided to try our luck and just walked in. The gods must have been smiling upon us because a couple canceled right when we walked in, so we were then introduced to our waiter, Fay. Now, the entire wait staff at O Noir is blind, and Fay was no exception. He was fairly young and very friendly, and explained to us in a French accent that he was to lead us around in there and that it would be quite loud. We left all our belongings in a locker, then PGB put his hand on Fay’s shoulder and I put my hand on PGB‘s shoulder and we were off. We shuffled in the darkness slowly, and I could hear the sound of a live band and people’s chatter all around us. It was really loud inside, so much so that I couldn’t hear anything Fay was saying, so I just clung onto PGB and hoped that he’d heard the instructions. It was extremely weird walking around in pitch darkness with so much activity all around us. I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like. All I can say is that, at one point, I gave up trying to use my eyes at all, so I closed them and just concentrated on listening. Suddenly, in my mind, I felt like the entire room lit up, not with light, but with sounds. I felt like I could “see” the room – how big it was, how many people were in it, what the live band looked like, etc. – all from listening. Fay first led us to the washroom, which was also in darkness, but there was a special light bulb that lit up the ceramic toilet and some dim lights at the sink, thank god. Then, Fay took us to our seats. Once we were seated, PGB and I started commenting on how absolutely bizarre and unreal this experience was. The room felt at times both large and small. We seemed quite close to other customers, by the sound of their conversation, but the darkness seemed cavernous with the sound of many customers chatting farther away.
Eating our food in the darkness was another world of bizarre on its own. It never occurred to me the kind of role sight plays in eating. Simple things like knowing where to stab my fork, or whether there was even food left on my plate, suddenly became challenges to overcome. We’d both ordered filet mignon (we ordered from the front desk before we entered), which came with some vegetables that I soon realized to be string beans, carrots, and potatoes. I was at first tempted to just feel around my plate with my hands, but that would’ve been extremely messy, so I settled on moving my fork around and stabbing randomly. I entirely gave up on trying to cut my filet mignon into pieces after a few forkfuls of nothing but air, and just bit off pieces of the filet mignon that I managed to stab successfully. Luckily, it was cut in strips, so I didn’t make a huge mess. Dessert for me was a slice of dark chocolate and raspberry mousse cake, which was slightly easier to navigate since there was no cutting or stabbing involved. But even spooning the cake was difficult because sometimes I got nothing and sometimes I got the cake right on, so much so that I spooned more than I could handle, and some mousse would drip off the spoon. I was lucky to discover, later, that I didn’t drip any on me, but I’m pretty sure I left some dollops of mousse on the table.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, the food was really top notch. You’d think that for a place like this, most people would come just for the experience, and the food could be average but they’d still be a hit. However, I can say with confidence that they did not skimp on hiring good chefs at all. The filet mignon was so juicy and savoury that I spent a good fifteen minutes making sure I didn’t have any left on my plate.
At the end of the meal, most of the customers had left and we found that we were one of four tables left (my sense of hearing was getting better and better). They served in two-hour-long “waves” I believe, and clean up in between before the next “wave,” so customers were not being continually let in. One of the tables, a rather large group from the sound of it, started making animal noises, and we called back with noises of our own (PGB mooed and I barked). Then, they started a round of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and the other tables joined in as well. We all had a good laugh. That was when we befriended the table next to us, a table of four females who were from The City as well, we found out. When we came out of the restaurant, we started calling their location, “Mississauga? Mississauga?” and found each other by the lockers. I think both parties were surprised to see the faces of the people they’d been talking to in the dark. We were all happy to have someone to relate our experiences to³, and excited to have made acquaintances in one of the strangest ways possible – in complete darkness.

After dinner, PGB and I walked over to Oyster Shack, which was near Crescent St., a street known for its bars and pubs. It was literally lined with pubs, mostly Irish, and PGB and I ducked into one called Grumpy’s to wait for WAF and SRB.
Over a tall glass of Sleeman Honey Brown Lager, we befriended the bartender, a native of a small town on the edge of Quebec and Ontario. He spoke perfect English and was not at all put off by our ignorance of Quebecois culture. There were virtually no other patrons in the bar, but the people who were there we were sure to strike up a conversation with. First, I met a cute musician, then PGB and I talked up an Asian girl and her boyfriend. Turns out they were writers (well, the Asian girl was a writer, the boyfriend was an editor). They seemed much younger than they actually were. We chatted about university and our careers, and we swapped contact info before they left in case she ever came to The City. Later, WAF and SRB showed up, and we started taking shots together. When SSS showed up two hours later, we were already known by every one in the bar and BFFs with the bartender. We went behind the bar to take a picture with him, we took shots with him, and we even controlled the playlist on his Ipod. He made many custom shots for us and named them after us (i.e. the Purple City Shot), and gave us a couple rounds on the house.
Although the night was a blur of drinking and laughter, I do remember being chatted up by a cute blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy. MontrealBoy was also a musician, and though we had very little in common, we both shared a love for food and spoke almost zero French⁴. The conversation definitely started off on the right foot when he said he loved Thai food. He did the courteous thing of offering to buy me a drink, but I knew I was already drunk so I declined. Plus, he was a starving artist, how could I take advantage of him?
I had a lot of booze flowing through my veins by then, but even so, I could tell 1) he was cute, 2) he was interested in me. I was tipped off to the latter when I mentioned something about being an only child about two minutes into the conversation, and him saying “I could be your older brother.” A strange pick-up line, no doubt, but nonetheless, it was obvious he wanted to simulate a closer relationship between us than we actually had. I spent the rest of the night talking to him while the rest of my friends did their own drunken activity of preference (SSS ran around giggling, PGB chatted up more strangers, SRB passed out, and WAF floated between taking care of SRB and taking more shots). I must admit, I do not have an inkling of memory of what we talked about, except that he had mesmerizing eyes and a rather large nose. I leaned on him and looked for stars in the cloudy Montreal sky while he smoked and talked to WAF about philosophy or some such thing. I was so drunk that even the smoking didn’t bother me. I should have realized how gone I was, but I was in that happy floaty place where everything seemed perfectly reasonable. It was glorious.
At some point, WAF took SRB back to the hotel, and then later, even PGB and SSS left. MB and I continued to chat until he finished his beer, then we walked back to my hotel hand in hand. At this point, I realized that we had another thing in common. Neither of us wanted to sleep together. Maybe that was why I felt so comfortable around him – because there were no warning bells going off! Sure, he’d put his arm around me, and sure, we’d been holding hands all the way home. But when we got to my hotel, he made excuses about having to get up early and whatnot. I almost laughed. I’d never been on the receiving end of excuses not to sleep together. Usually, I’d be the one awkwardly declining and running away. But here was a boy who was content to hold my hand and walk me home. The French really do know how to win a girl’s heart.

Monday morning, I woke up late and hungover. I felt nauseous and barely human for most of the morning, and did not start feeling alive again until after I’d had some food. After checking out, we drove to the Quartier Latin, which is known for its theatres, artistic atmosphere, cafés, and boutiques. We had lunch at an Italian restaurant, but I was still feeling nauseous at that point, so I ended up only having soup. The soup really hit the spot though, and I felt much better after, so I left a large tip for the waiter (even though he didn’t speak English and I had to say “Hot. Water.” five times before he understood me. “Eau. Chaud.” !). We walked up St. Denis to a gorgeous chocolate boutique called Suite 88 Chocolatier. I really wanted to buy some (even though it was quite pricey), but the lady said that the chocolates were very thin and delicate and would definitely not survive the long car-ride home.
Finally, we drove to Mont Royal, Montreal’s namesake, and took some pictures before heading back to The City.

When I returned to The City, I felt like I’d traveled to a different continent this weekend. Even though I only had to resort to my broken French twice the entire trip, Montreal had a strong European vibe. I had some of the best food and wine at the best prices this weekend. The food was original and unpretentious, and the wine (especially the $16 bottle I bought in the convenient store across the street from the hotel) was the silkiest I’ve ever had. I felt like I’d gone to culinary heaven.

1. Although most people in Montreal are bilingual, certain parts of the city contain more English-speakers than others. We only encountered one waiter who couldn’t speak English almost at all. Nonetheless, French is the preferred language, and some locals treat Anglophones (especially tourists) differently. [↩]
2. I didn’t order this one but SSS did. I tried some but preferred my veal. Not that it wasn’t good, but it had a subtle taste that I did not really care for. Plus, I’ve had rabbits as pets before, so it was just a little bit weird. [↩]
3. One of them got chocolate on her white sleeves. Another had decided to forgo using cutlery completely and just ate with her hands. [↩]
4. Most of the patrons in the bar seemed to speak more English than French, and it turns out that the bar is a local haunt for musicians, which explains why we met so many of the artsy type. [↩]