Howard Eats Montreal

I’ve extended an invitation to our traveling companions: write about the experience you had in Montreal. Howard Schaefer brings his talent at description and scene-setting to three of our most memorable meals during their stay.

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Opening Night: Toque!

As an eating team, we should have been dubbed The High Flying Locusts, for truly it was a swath we cut through Montreal haute cuisine. At Toque’, the delight in the presentation of each course paired with its wine was palpable around the table. I could be projecting a bit here. Robert and Michael eat everywhere fabulous, more fabulous and most fabulous, so this may not have knocked their socks off, but they looked well pleased. An exciting presentation style with handsome servers attending the table, announcing the food in English, and the exotic Pascal Paradis announcing (possibly in English) well-chosen wines from all over the world, made this meal for me the celebratory event that Todd had predicted. Todd also took momentary leave of his senses and hosted the meal entirely, a Herculean demonstration of courage and generosity. Funding the meals of The High Flying Locusts in major cuisine ports of call is not for the faint hearted.

I must say I am so easily amused. I just loved all the different plates that came out with each of the seven courses, blobby shapes, round, oval, square, different colors; it kept things a little off the expectable. This discovery, and the mid-century color palette in the dining room, caused me to think I had found the key to the name of the restaurant, which Donovan translated as ‘crazy.” I couldn’t identify anything else crazy about this place. Foodwise, I was well pleased with tastes, textures, amounts, presentation and progression, but especially memorable for me was the at times uncannily smooth continuum between the special tastes in the food and in the paired wines. I recall that Donovan later said to me that we had been at table four hours. I was surprised to hear this as the time went by so pleasurably fast. This ranks high as a truly memorable and festive meal with a relaxed, but precise signature. Chuck worked his elfin magic and scored us a tour of the kitchen. I normally would excuse myself from this sort of thing. The bright lights after a shaded dining room scare me off. But I must say this kitchen tour was a fascinating bonus. There were separate work stations for the cold appetizer, the hot appetizer, and all other components of the meal. The people looked like a precision team of experts. They smiled at us and seemed amused by their sighting of The High Flying Locusts. The place was spotless. I thought maybe I could fit in. The cellar was to die for. I especially wanted to work in the cellar. But I was sure Chuck already had the cellar or would have it soon. Maybe we can jobshare.

Lounging @ the W Plateau

Now, backing up a moment, I do wish to comment on the Mezzanine Bar at W Hotel in Montreal. Pretty much a country mouse, I attend places like this with a geewhiz shazaam viewpoint. I am the opposite of hip. But I do appreciate seeing the sheer volume of beautiful people in a place where they are expected to be beautiful and they goddam well deliver. I wore a Harris tweed sport jacket and a fine tie. Donovan said I looked like I was at work. I regretted not acting upon his comment when I saw a triumvirate of young men enter with their shirts stylishly hanging out in demonstration of affect that said “Oh God this is SO daily for us.” But I felt better when courteous Michael said I looked dapper. Dapper is good. At my age, dapper is something. Dapper is better than many other looks. It might not make GQ, but I would not humiliate myself when interviewed on NPR, if dapper.

Cleaning our Plates at Pintxo

Next evening, Pinxto was Proustian. I mean those late night bacchanals he hosted. Proust was in this case played handsomely by Michael. If I die tomorrow, I can at least say I have lived long enough to have dined with someone who actually said, quite grandly, “We would like every dish on the tapas menu, except the mixed salad.” You must know there were some 25 tapas on the menu. I think we suddenly were kicked up a notch by the owner, who realized that this was indeed his moment, The High Flying Locusts had arrived!! Donovan and I took great delight the next day in recalling that all tapas except the mixed salad had been ordered. We decided that the mixed salad was just too banal in name to even appear on the table. But then the parade of tapas did commence, in a well spaced progression from the kitchen, each one a treat, each one delicious, each one enticing in its uniqueness. I do not recall the wine singing here with the skill of the food, but it certainly was serviceable. Unbelievably, although each Locust also ordered an entrée after the tapas marathon, we all did acknowledge the next day that the entrees were probably de trop. Honorable mention must go to Robert, who exhibited manly restraint and actually allowed a portion of his food to be taken away unconsumed.

Stepping back again, we all met for cocktails in the bar at the Ritz. This bar is characterized by well spaced tables and courtly service that inspire good conversation. A great place to start an evening and focus on each other. Donovan and I are relatively new to The High Flying Locusts, so we appreciated the opportunities on this visit to converse.

The Foot of the Pig

On our last night, we experienced Au Pied de Cochon. It is truly a great experience when, amidst the swirling chaos of this place, one also realizes that one is dining at a restaurant that will be short-listed in one’s dining journal for various reasons: service, ambiance, food dynamism, portions (Oh Ye Happy Band of Men, Ye Happy Locusts), hospitality and just sheer fun. Our personal sommelier, Chuck, chose to outfit himself in native garb this evening, including a blue stocking cap tilted back on his head, giving him the allure of the woods, the musk of the logging camp and the cachet of après ski. He already has several categories of allure, so this really was grabby of him, but we forgave him instantly because he befriended all service staff with secret codes and signs, and soon we were in like Flynn with everyone who had the keys to our hungry hearts. Wines flowed in comfortable sync with an array of foods that came and went, crossed our table this way and that with tastings, commentaries and second offerings. Not what you would call an uptight restaurant!! The sought-after Sugar Pie got reserved ahead of time for our dessert phase. Special reserve dessert wines appeared. Somehow one knew this was no ordinary nice restaurant; this place was breaking boundaries and categories right and left and the peak moment seemed to be right now.

Our world class server bounced both of her hands in front of her mouth, gathering her extended fingertips around her thumb, to show us that the pork appetizer special that evening was “simple, simple, but so delicious.” Later, in commentary, Michael showed us with the same gesture that his appetizer had indeed been “simple, simple, but so delicious.” I am still smiling about that. You would have to see Michael do that to get the wit. Basically, his gesture might get me through the whole winter. The server in question should be put on Quebec’s list of National Treasures. Nanette would work for her name if that isn’t in fact her name. She is the Piaf of Pork! I was so enamored of her excellence that upon leaving I actually kissed her hand in the fashion of the European courts. Of course, this was totally inappropriate, but I hasten to add that only the most cautious nearness to her skin was involved, not even real contact with my lips. I read somewhere that was how you do it to be cool, so I was cool within my jerkiness. I can see Michael here, saying: “simple, simple, but so delicious.”