Category: Montreal

You can’t always have great travel experiences. Our luck ran out yesterday with an ill-fated trip to Eggspectations. Apparently, the egg-focused restaurant originated in Montreal and our guide books mention it as the place to go for breakfast. We saw one near the jazz festival, so our plan was to have breakfast at Eggspectations and then catch a few free concerts. We were seated outside after about a 20 minute wait. Our waiter took our order promptly. I ordered the “Eggstravaganza,” basically the works, and Inez ordered a green eggs and ham benedict. Then we sat for an hour with no service. We had to ask a hostess for water. We complained to our waiter. He said our food would be out shortly. More time passes and we complain to a server who immediately gets defensive saying that it is really busy, averting his eyes and darting back into the restaurant. People who were seated after us were happily scarfing down their eggs; their eggspectations met. We tried to enjoy the music wafting over from the festival, while trying not to turn into angry, ugly Americans. Just as we were about transform, our eggs arrived. The food was good. I think. But I would have thought my own arm was good at that point.There was never any apology or explanation, but our drinks were removed from the bill. We took our own discount from the tip. No more high expectations for Eggpecations.

We shook off our bad dining juju by heading back up Sainte-Catherine and over to Rue Sherbrooke to Musee des Beaux Arts to see the Jean-Paul Gauthier exhibit, which more than exceeded our expecations. Whether you like his designs or not Gauthier is truly a creative genius. My favorite tidbit from the exhibit was that when Gauthier was a child his mother took him to see a burlesque show. He was fascinated by the feathers and the next day at school he proudly drew a picture of a seductively costumed woman in class. His teacher took him to the front of the room where he expected praise, but was instead rapped on the knuckles as punishment. As it turns out, the picture made him a hero among his peers and he received his first taste of fame. So, this leads to Gauthier’s fascination with corsets and designing Madonna’s Blond Ambition tour, which was on display. We also saw a dress from his mermaid collection, which Marion Cotillard wore as she accepted her Best Actress Oscar for “La Vie en Rose.” We were shocked by the amount of pieces that were on exhibit. Some just weren’t meant to be worn anywhere but on a runway like a skintight outfit painted with muscles and veins. We are certain this was the precursor to Lady Gaga’s meat dress. Then there was a sequined, very anatomically correct, number meant to look like a nude woman. There were so many fabulous fashion surprises and facts. For the Cameo fans, Gauthier designed for the funk/pop/R&B band in the 80s. Remember Larry Blackmon’s red codpiece? The exhibit was incredible. I am not sure if it is traveling, but if you make it to Montreal before October, it is a must-see. Check out a few pics below.

After exploring Gauthier’s fashion genius, we head back to the festival to experience more musical genius. We’d pretty much walked the length of Montreal’s downtown so we welcomed a relaxing moment to listen to the Jacek Kochan Quartet. Puppeters, stilt-walkers and mimes created a fun carnival-like experience. By this time, it’s time plan our next meal. It’s our last night in Montreal so we hope for better dining karma than in the morning. We also plan to check out Montreal’s nightlife. Sarah’s hubby Jean-Claude tells that a place we were considering had turned “ghetto” and closed recently, but recommended Le Piano Rouge. We saw this place in Vieux-Montreal the day before, but saw and heard a woman singing very bad karaoke through the window. We were skeptical, but thought we’d give it a try on the way back from dinner.

We found Chez L’Epicier on the corner of Saint-Claude and Saint-Paul in Vieux-Montreal. It was dimly lit inside with exposed brick and huge picture windows looking out on the cobbled-stone streets of Vieux-Montreal. We chose the spot because it was described as French fusion and we weren’t in the mood for anything traditional. As soon as we were seated, our waiter mentioned a change to the menu. It was a salad that should have featured razor clams, but shrimp had been substituted. A diner next to us piped up and said the salad was amazing and that we should have a nice gewurtztraminer along with it. Our recommendations from fellow travelers hadn’t steered us wrong so far, so we ordered the salad along with a Black bread crusted Halibut for me and lobster for Inez and a glass of Santa Ynez white wine since it carried Inez’s name. A fabulous dining experience ensued. Eggs were the furthest thing from our minds as we started the meal with an amuse bouche of a chilled, creamy lobster panacotta, followed by the salad that came with instructions. A crisp resembling a tortilla chip sat atop a small bowl of shrimp layered with edamame, yuzu and wasabi. We were told to crack the crisp and blend it with all the other ingredients for texture and taste. It was delicious. As were our main entrees. My halibut was flaky and flavorful resting in a saffron sauce with tomatoes bursting with an unknown flavor, which I learned was anise. Mussels lined the plate in a fennel and shallot sauce. Inez’s plate had food decorating all corners with a beautifully pink-red lobster in the center. We were most intrigued by the celery panacotta, nestled inside a celery stalk. A meal like this can only be made better with great conversation which we got from fellow diners Tara and Alan, a writer and musician, from Toronto. We raved about the meal before launching into discussing our other travels, politics (Why don’t Americans want national healthcare?) and medical anthropology. They were lovely. We exchanged information and they left us with a dessert recommendation, the chocolate club sandwich with pineapple fries and creamy melon salad and fresh mint. Sounds crazy, right? It was one of the best and most innovative desserts that I’ve ever had. The pineapple fries, lightly battered and coated with brown sugar, would make you want to reach back and slap your grandmama. They were that good. See my photos to trace our gastronomic journey.

Good food has a way of making your evening, so we couldn’t loose by checking out Le Piano Rouge. As soon as we walked through the door the funk sucker-punched us dead in the face. James Brown funk, that is. The band was killing “The Big Payback.” The bar was packed with folks bobbing their heads and trying to squeeze onto a tiny dance floor in the front. We were blown away when a vocalist started speaking the words from the poem “A Blues for Nina” from the movie “Love Jones.” We were pretty much done when the DJ took over and blasted old school jam after old school jam, Bobby Brown to Bell Biv Devoe to Adina Howard and Al B. Sure. He even hit the house classic “Follow Me.” It was ridiculous. There is just no other way to explain it. We left Le Piano Rouge played, sweaty and smiling. We got back to our hotel at 3 am. What a way to leave Montreal.

Next stop Oxford. I may not post for the next day our two as I’ll be traveling, but keep your eyes peeled for the next installment.

When you are lost, you find the most interesting things. Yesterday, while looking for the Peel metro stop, we stumbled upon a Canada Day celebration in Parc du Canada downtown. It was definitely a mellow, well-mannered gathering of young and old in their best and/or kookiest red and white finery. Children had Canadian flags afixed proudly to their heads, some had flags painted on their faces. We saw Canada Dr. Seuss hats, umbrella hats and all kinds of patriotic Canadian gear. What struck us the most at this gathering was how patiently these proud Canadians waited in a line circling the park for a piece of Happy Canada Day cake, which looked like store-bought Costco cake. Don’t get me wrong; Costco cake can be really good. We just weren’t sure we’d stand in line for it.

 We did decide however to stand in line for a Schwartz smoked meat sandwich, which was our destination once we found the metro. As lines go, this one wasn’t bad, less than a block long, which we are told is how far a Schwartz deli line can stretch. And lucky for us we didn’t have to stand in it long to be seated because we were just a party of two. Schwartz’s is like any other diner that you’ve been to with formica tables and aluminum chairs, paper placemats and napkin-wrapped utensils. Canadian and U.S. stars, from Tim Allen to Tina Turner, smile at us from the walls and extoll the deliciousness of smoked meat. It is tasty and they don’t skimp on the meat. We decide to split a sandwich and fries and order extra bread and pickles, upon the advice of Roger who was sharing our table. Roger made the pilgrammage from the Toronto area with his sons for Canada Day. They were on their way to a water park to see fireworks. He also told us to order our meat medium with mustard. The sandwich comes to us split down the middle and leaning over from the weight of layers of sliced meat. The first bite is salty, but not too salty and mustard is a perfect compliment.

 

 

 

With this authentic Canadian experience under our belt, we stay a bit longer in the Plateau neighborhood to do a bit of shopping. Saint-Laurent is the street for boutiques and vintage shops. Unfortunately, because it is Canada Day, some stores are closed. But the popular spot Lola and Emily is open. It is a light and airy store and the clothes fit the decor. Inez and I tried on a few dresses in the sale bin priced at $25 each. They didn’t work, but I walked away with a plaid fitted cotton shirt on sale. It seemed appropriate for cool Canadian evenings and probably even cooler days in England. A stop at a vintage spot on Avenue de Pins transported us to the best and the worst of the 1970s. The best was a cute A-line green-patterned dress with long puffed sleeves that neither of us could wear. The worst was a grey leather jumpsuit that looked like something donated by NASA.

Inez was craving desert, so we stopped for chocolate cake and clafoutis at a bakery on Saint Denis before heading to Vieux-Montreal. We are so glad we went. It was the highlight of the day. The buildings reminded us of any old city in Europe…Barcelona, Paris. It seemed like every Canadian in Canada was there, strolling the cobble stone streets past shops, art galleries and outdoor eateries. Most made their way down to Vieux-Port to enjoy live music and an impressive assembly of moon bounces for kids. We also spotted the unmistakable Cirque du Soleil tents and hoped we could catch a show in its home city. We finished our day in Vieux-Montreal with crepes at Jardin Nelson a large but lovely, indoor-outdoor restaurant. I had a savory rabbit and wild mushroom crepe for dinner and Inez had an apple crepe. As we dined we heard fireworks bounce and reverberate off the sides of old stone buildings. I left our table to sneak a peek at the bursts of light breaking the Canadian sky.

 My Sade obsession began in high school. I had a picture of her in my locker along with Ralph Macchio and John Stamos. They weren’t appropriate company for her. They were teen heartthrobs, a flash in the pan. Sade is forever. She is like my Jackie O or my Marilyn Monroe. She is cool, classic, hip and understated. Sade, like a Chanel bag, will never go out of style. So, you see, I couldn’t miss her first tour in North America in about a decade. It would have been sacriligeous. I laid on my pink comforter in my bedroom and studied the lyrics on the “Diamond Life” album like I studied Algebra. I even quoted her in my yearbook. “Reach for the stars, she said. And the sun is gonna shine. Every winter was a war, she said. I want to get what’s mine.” That was from “Jezebel,” one of my favorite Sade songs, which she sang last night. It pretty much made the concert and made my night. I screamed like I was in high school. She sat on the edge of the stage and sang from her heart, which I image has been wounded many times based on her lyrics, and often let the spotlight shine on her sax player. It was so simple. No booty bouncing. Just music coming from real musicians. Even though I was in a stadium with probably 20,000 other people, it felt intimate. My other favorite moment was when she sang “Is it a Crime?” Red drapes dropped from the ceiling and the stage turned red, while lovesick passion oozed from Sade’s velvety throat. I could go on and recount each detail vividly, but I don’t want to ruin it for anyone else that may see the concert. It is truly something to be experienced. See some of my pictures below.

As it turns out, yesterday was all about reliving high school memories. Earlier in the day, our middle and high school classmate, Sarah Hamady, hopped out of her car in front of our hotel and brightened an otherwise damp, dreary day in Montreal. She looked like she could have been standing in front of my locker in argyle socks the way she once did when we were in 7th grade, just a little bit funkier. She was wearing a grey sweatshirt with a big pink heart in the middle and goldrimmed glasses, a little ponytail sprang from the left side of her blonde cropped do. In my head, she was a mix of her preppy and punk selves. After 7th grade Sarah and her pal Melanie were the punk scene of National Cathedral School for Girls. Sarah’s hair went from brown to ash white and her clothes went from monogramed to black. But her personality was always bright and fun and it seemed that things hadn’t changed much.

First, Sarah took us to the Plateau neighborhood, catching us up on her life since we last saw her more than 25 years ago. I think the two things that sum up the interesting twists and turns of Sarah’s life since high school are that she earned a PhD in philosophy doing a dissertation on happiness, then went on to design clothes for George Clinton, the principal architecht of P-Funk, as Wikipedia defines him. And oddly, these two things seem to make perfect sense together in her life. She currently is an artist in Montreal, raising her 4-year-old son Duke, with her husband Jean-Claude, a Congolese musician and minister.

Sarah made sure to take her tour guide duties seriously, pointing out beautiful homes along the way, noting the outdoor staircases leading to first and second floor entrances, different from row houses in the U.S., with staircases in entryways. Our home tour turned into a garden tour as well. The people of Montreal tend their flower boxes and small front yards well. Tiger lilies and peonies sprang up full and happy alongside porches and fences. We stopped at an ecclectic art gallery in Plateau with provocative and sexually suggestive art made from toilet seats and diving flippers.

We decided to have lunch in another neighborhood and head to Avenue Laurier, which Sarah says has been the longtime home of Orthodox Jews in Montreal and new home to a growing artist community. In fact, the restaurant we chose seemed to be a perfect example of this cross-section of people. Rumi, named for the Persion and Muslim poet, is owned by two Jewish Orthodox brothers who converted to Sufism. Mystical sufi chants play in the background with a Mediteranean/Morrocan/Turkish menu of olives, pastilla, and teas. We lingered there catching up on our classmates and trying to remember our more insecure selves. Sarah left us for a while and returned with her ridiculously cute, curly-haired progeny, Duke. As we walked back to Sarah’s car, Duke found a “sword” and imagined himself a pirate exploring the front yards and porches of the Jewish families of Avenue Laurier.

 

 

 Tree stumps decorate our hotel. The one outside our elevator reminds me of the tree stump that performers rub for good luck on “Showtime at the Apollo” before they kill it on stage or get roundly booed and shooed off stage by an old man with a cane. I’ve rubbed the stump, the hotel stump, a couple of times. Never know when you’ll need good luck. The stumps are a clear sign that we are in a trendy hotel, if you like that kind of thing, which I do. Who wouldn’t be into getting $50 off a spa treatment at a nearby trendy spa or a free upgrade to a suite, then being sent to your cozy, yet quirky room with a box of upscale chocolates? I don’t know. I am not that person. Neither is my friend Inez. We ooh’d and ahh’d over our new home at the Hotel Chez Swann as soon as we entered. Not a bad way to start in Montreal. (Shout out to Travel Artist Gai Spann for the suggestion.) Check out some pics below.

 

 

 

 

After check-in, the most important thing on the agenda is food. I am starved especially after getting to the airport at 5 am to see a woman get knocked down by a baggage cart (she was OK, but justifiably pissed), stand in line for over an hour to get my already overweight bag checked in and have a $10 banana, cup of fruit and juice for breakfast. I am convinced that airports are turning into pits of hell. But I am in Montreal now. Our very hip hotel staff sends us to Reuben’s. We make a couple of wrong turns through downtown Montreal past the biggest Forever 21 store we’ve ever seen and any other chain store you’ve ever seen in the US, before we get there. We started with a couple of tasty mango-itos. Inez had three softball-sized Kobe sliders and I had a turkey melt the size of Texas. American-sized food portions have snuck across the border.

Of course we need a nap afterwards, so we head back to our well-appointed room for a quick snooze and to call our high school classmate Sarah Hamady, who we hope to hang out with today. Then of course it’s back to food. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but somehow vacation is all about planning your next meal. We chose Julien, a French restaurant about five blocks away. I practiced a bit of my very rusty French to get us seated and was told by the maitre’d, Marc-Antoine, that my French was pretty good. I think he was just flirting, In fact I am sure he was. He made it back to our table frequently and offered himself as dessert later in the evening. Should have gotten a picture of that one. But instead, I have a picture of the confit de canard with the crispiest potato coins brushed with duck fat. Fabulous.

Now, for the reason we came. The center of the Montreal Jazz Festival is another couple of blocks away on Sainte Catherine, where the street is blocked off to house six outdoor stages. It feels sleepy at first. We guess because it’s early in the week. We don’t see throngs of people immediately until we head to one stage to see the band “Freshly Ground.” They had the crowd jumping and had a sound that reminded us of Paul Simon meets Cyndi Lauper. We caught the end of their performance and followed the crowd around to see Ima, where we discovered that Vegas cheese has snuck across the border, too. Ima is a blonde French Canadienne cover queen. She started her set with Rod Stewart’s “If You Think I’m Sexy,” then went on to warble her way through Lou Rawls and Barry White hits. When we’d had enough we made our way to the Cafe Starbucks and met Larry a veteran Jazz Festival-goer from Raleigh, N.C., who recommended that we see Bluesman Lucky Peterson. He made a good call. Lucky and his lady Tammy showed Ima a thing or two and tore down the night sky with their renditions of “Fire” by the Ohio Players and Prince’s “Kiss.” Couldn’t end any better than that, so with tummies full and blues in our heads, we decided to call it night.

A demain.