Montreal
Who knew a bit of city walking could do my back some good? Plus Clyde went on his first international trip.
Jenny and I had it in our minds to go to Montreal either this Summer or in the Autumn. When my back went sour we weren’t sure anymore, but Jenny also thought it a good idea for me to just get away for a few days. I conjured my inner Countess Dowager from Downton Abbey and held my lip up high as dark clouds leered over. And thanks for Kessler on Broad Street I was loose and strong enough to withstand the car ride. We crossed the border, took Clyde for a walk to the park nearby, then grabbed my seat pad and lumber pillow and hopped on the Metro to Mon Lapin. You see, I love cooking but when you can’t stand for longer than fifteen minutes there’s not much you can do. Before June I was roasting my own birds, refining Asian sauces, and just having a good time. And when the back thing happened I had to adjust everything. Morning became simple oatmeal with fruit, afternoon became quinoa with various vegetables and canned sardines, and dinner was toast with peanut butter. A highlight of my week was getting tamales at Los Hermanos on Bloomfield Ave.
Montreal, a city with all the colors and aromas of the seasons, was my food revenge. There is similarity with what I’ve enjoyed in Northern California in that what is fresh now is best, and both cuisines are French-ish. The difference being that the Quebecois culture as a whole is literally French-ish and even still it is alive and kicking while Californian with its heavy Yankee WASPdom ceased to be relevant to anything except how to create problems only you have the solutions to. Mon Lapin, Au Pied de Cochon, Joe Beef, J’ai faim, and Montreal Plaza were all the same kind of cuisine interpreted by individual expression, like a good genre of art or music.
Mon Lapin was what I’d expect a true neighborhood restaurant to be. You can come in and enjoy the seasonal food with friends at a table, outside, or at the bar. It works in every situation. We enjoyed our eggplant and cantaloupe, razor clams, sea urchin, and spaghettini with sweet sun gold tomatoes next to a first date on one side and a couple and their newborn on the other. The fried zucchini blossom with cream and arctic berries just sent us on our way to relax until the next round. If I lived nearby I’d come at least twice a month.
During the day we got some dumplings from Dumpling Hut which was a pleasant surprise. Jenny thought to order the usual pork and cabbage. I thought I ain’t sitting here with my pads on this hard ass chair unless I’m eating something different. Pork and Dill and Beef and Coriander was the order, and it was on point. The dill wasn’t just the little fronds, but they went rather rustic and included bits of the stem. Normally that would make my head tilt, but they somehow absorbed all the juices from the pork. And the beef was pillow soft to where it just melted in your mouth, and the coriander cut it just right. If I had a place like this nearby I’d order from it every other day.
I’ve been to Au Pied de Cochon APDC before and did something crazy. With my parents, I ordered the blood pudding, the pig’s foot with morels and foie, and also the purée. My father got so drunk off the food my mother had carry him back to the hotel early. So I was left at the table with 3/4 of everything and I did my best. After that meal I was comatose at the nearby park for a few hours. This time I sat back on the cush chairs and ordered sensibly: duck tartare with anchovies, raw tuna with chiles, chanterelles and cheese tart, foie with plums and milk bread, pork shank, a frozen fruit salad, and a doughnut with berries. (Yes, that’s sensible to me.) Everything we ate was delicious. My only comment would be that 70% of the menu, while great, sits there day after day to accommodate the cliche tourist. I’ve heard people talk shit about APDC, and sure whatever. The whole place is bumping and feels like a diner before covid. All the staff is smiling and doing their thing and the food is good. I’d always think to take someone visiting Montreal for the first time here, because it is unique and as far as I can tell: consistent.
We dipped into a place near where we were staying called Billy, J’ai faim! Was I hungry? Not hungry, but I could eat. We ordered fish soup and gazpacho. I’m always partial to fish soup, because I have a long history with it going back to culinary school. It was creamy and tasted like the ocean. But their gazpacho was exact. If I had another stomach I would have taken a quart to go.
Beef, Joe Beef. What a name. This was my third time here and while it’s the same place the neighborhood has changed. I remember the street being rather sleepy, but there’s a damn Aesop store next door. I love this place because it is what it is. It reminds me of Spotted Pig during its prime. Scallops with iceberg lettuce and some kind of sauce that I didn’t catch was such a tease. I wish I could have ordered 4 more and slapped it on a buttered potato roll. Tendon is something everybody outside of America does, and the tendon salad was exactly what Americans should be exposed to. And yeah we ordered crudite but this is a place to order it. Jenny had to order the spaghetti lobster which is such a cliche. She told me I didn’t need to eat any, I did anyway. My duck with Concord grapes was something I wasn’t sure I was quite ready for since my summer was a bust. But with that first succulent bite of duck breast and the sweet and sour grape sauce you’d swear I was some kind of fiend. And the desserts of strawberry tart and meringue with toasted white chocolate polished off the meal. Whether here at Joe Beef or elsewhere nothing was overly sweet or over seasoned, thank god. With a third stomach and lotto winnings I’d come here once a week, but once every other month is probably sane.
Montreal Plaza is the other place you take visitors to or you go because an updated bistro makes you feel like the country isn’t collapsing. The corn mousse was just about the best thing I had all trip. They had the correct idea: immediately you are taken to the movie theater with that big thing of buttery popcorn sitting next to that girl who you felt like you were going to die when you asked her out. It tastes like that kind of success. More uni, under cream, Jenny’s preference. I’m mildly allergic to it. Scallop again, with strawberries. A chilled mussel dish with a lot of cilantro and balanced sauce that would make Jenny’s mom nod in confirmation. Zucchini blossom stuffed with lobster along with more crudite was something I’d want to see everywhere. Everything in this dish was properly seasoned. Then the whelks which were good though we ordered out of necessity since we were in Montreal. I found out Jenny’s never had blood pudding which seems impossible since we will have been together for 19 years come September. A convert she became. I usually order rhubarb no matter what, but I felt like I needed something more classical and something savory. Floating island with creme anglaise next to a place of blue cheese and meringue were the orders. At an updated bistro like this they executed everything as they should. Every other day for the corn mousse?
Montreal, not just the restaurants, but the town is what I needed. It had the right amount of grit and nonchalance. The bums hovered and greeted Clyde, the cyclists generally followed the rules, the espresso was good and consistent, food predictably well executed, and the Metro came in 3 minute intervals. I’m not sure if it’s always like that, but the whole trip made me feel normal. And because of that I saw Jenny smile after a summer of looking at me like she didn’t know if she could even touch me.
