Montreal
Just a love letter, + plenty of eating
We primarily go to Montreal in February, when the snow glare scorches your eyeballs and every inhalation brings with it the odd crispy feeling of frozen nose hairs. There’s something about a city that feels particularly warm when it’s particularly cold; every time you go into a cafe or restaurant, you have to take off so many layers it’s like you’re unpacking to spend the night. The first time we came, Anthony and I took over Emilie and Franciose’s kitchen to make a pile of crepes and Russian zakuski spread for the crew of friends I’d heard so much about but hadn’t yet met. I remember that night, overwhelmed by the elegance of everyone and shy at the table as English and French swirled like a gale around me. I was wearing a red dress that wasn’t quite warm enough; it was Valentine’s Day.
Eons of valentines later, we picked up radishes, butter, baguettes, soft stinky cheese, and heart-shaped ravioli at Jean Talon market. We ate lacy buckwheat crepes that are not at all like Anthony’s blini — so dark they look almost purple and with a rich nutty taste that only needs a little mushroom, sprinkled cheese, wilted spinach, to be perfect. We drove out to the forest with Alex and Sonali, and went cross-country skiing and drank champagne in the outdoor hot tub, fully luxuriating in what we didn’t know would be our last trip before Covid lockdown. I’m happy we brought back an entire suitcase of bagels, which we would freeze and still have when it came time to shelter in place.
(A note about Montreal bagels: they are better than New York bagels. As far as I know, they are better than anyone’s bagels. They’re hand-rolled and wood-fired, smaller, sweeter and chewier than what we have here, and for whatever reason the toppings cling much better to their surface. The two famous bagel shops are Fairmont and St. Viateur. As a New Yorker, I don’t feel privileged to swear allegiance to one or the other. They are both very good.)
We went back to Montreal last weekend. The unseasonal warmth this winter has been making me increasingly anxious and I needed to see snow, if only for a couple days. Miro had not seen it in his life. We stayed in Little Italy, across the street from a cafe that filled up in the morning with people eating pastries and sipping espresso and then again in the afternoon when it served pizza and wine. Miro didn’t sleep well so we were always up early. As soon as the bakeries opened, I’d set out through the empty streets to hunt for the best croissant. In the past, I think I chose Boulangerie Guillaume as my favorite, but this time I settled on Boulangerie Louise. Maybe it’s because I can never choose between a croissant and brioche (speaking of which, Brioche À Tête, perfect), but I want my pastry to be crisp-flaky on the outside and soft and stretchy on the inside, and these were just right. I also got a jar of their hazelnut chocolate spread to bring home and a strawberry financier, which inspired my latest recipe. We ate breakfast slowly, sharing the center of the croissants with Miro. On Friday night, we went to a friend’s seed pop-up on the top floor of the Société des Arts Technologiques. We got seeds for black tomatoes, curly cucumbers, and pipicha — a Oaxacan plant that’s supposed to taste like coriander — and drank fancy cocktails while Miro scooted around on the polished concrete floor investigating people’s shoelaces.
We drove up for the first time this year, which meant: hours of creeping behind a snowplow through the Adirondacks when a snowstorm caught us, a 2003 Toyota Camry with no snow tires. It also meant: grocery shopping. I went big. Three-dozen of the aforementioned bagels. Spices and dried fruit and nuts and beans from Anatol; green buckwheat and apple cider vinegar and wild cherry vinegar from Marché Des Saveurs; maple syrup from a stand inside Jean Talon; a gallon ziploc bag of dried porcini from the mushroom stand; cheeses (which we probably weren’t supposed to transport across the border); chocolate from État de choc; Italian pasta and preserved figs and 00 flour from Piazza Salumi, an Italian grocery store around the corner from us. I filled the trunk with food and I still think I should have gotten more, since nearly everything was cheaper and higher quality than what’s available around me.
Our friends all had babies years ago, but the way we see them hasn’t changed much. We got to Mel’s place in the afternoon on Saturday, when there was French toast on the table and coffee in the kitchen and the light filtered in through snow piles heaped against the glass doors. We unwrapped Miro and let him try to pull the plants over. Adults came and went, sometimes leaving their kids behind to join the pack roving up and down the hallway and into the backyard. Nico stopped by with a metallic-pink frosted banana bread from Rhubarb, the swank patisserie run by his friend Stéphanie. We switched to wine. Kelly began roasting a chicken. We ripped off pieces of baguette and picked at cheese and olives and pâté. I put Miro down for a nap in the middle of the king bed. We became incensed about Canada’s subsidized childcare. The kids ate drumsticks and rice, and eventually the rest of us had soup, roast chicken with carrots and potatoes, tinned sardines, endive salad, and then Mouna brought out her father’s bitter orange sorbet and the chocolate dipped orange rind, there were heart-shaped cookies made by the kids, a bottle of Fernet, chocolate bon bons, tea. We left when it was well-past dark, carrying a tired baby against Anthony’s chest.
A long party; brunch blending into dinner; double-kiss hello and goodbye; kids watched but not monitored; slow conversations; no rush to pay the bill. I know if I were to live there it would become real life, not a weekend enchantment. Still. I feel pangs of longing when I see kids playing in the snow during recess or people cycling past us on cleared bike lanes. The spiral staircases outside the duplexes make them prettier than the apartment buildings in New York. Back at home, I toast a sesame bagel and spread it with cream cheese. Its sweetness does not taste like my city.
Where to go:
Casual meal
Patati Patata — borscht, poutine, tofu sliders
Dépanneur le Pick Up — yuba pulled pork, halloumi sandwiches, breakfast
Bakeries
Rhubarb — beautiful fancy desserts
Boulangerie Louise — croissants and bread
Brioche À Tête — brioche
Hof Kelsten — sandwiches and pastries
Boulangerie Guillaume — croissants
Fairmont or St. Viateur — don’t go in there asking for a toasted bagel
Groceries / food stores
Jean Talon Market — fresh produce, cheese/meat/fish
Les Jardins Sauvages — mushroom stand inside Jean Talon
Marché Des Saveurs — local products and specialty goods
Piazza Salumi — imported Italian goods, cheese, bread & arancini
Anatol Spices — cheap bulk spices, dried fruit, nuts, beans, grains
État de choc — chocolate
Other
Mycoboutique — mushroom store!!! Some dried mushrooms but mostly supplies for foraging or growing
Drawn & Quarterly — graphic novel store (and publisher), with a “petit librairie” across the street for kids
What I’m Cooking
Buckwheat & orange peel financiers (gf)
Listen: The financier I ate in Montreal was good, but these were better. Nutty buckwheat and maple syrup. Bitter orange rind, which doesn’t make them soggy the next morning the way berries do. Get this recipe:
