I just got back from spending a few days in Montreal, which is almost exactly like being in France, except you don't have to feel quite so guilty for speaking English. And there's no jet lag.
I've reached the point in my life where I've decided that the best way to get to know a city -- the only way, really -- is through its food. So I did my due diligence (via Chowhound) and came up with my list of places, which my cousin was kind enough, and curious enough, to indulge me in visiting.
(Apologies in advance for the terrible pictures. Apparently I haven't yet mastered the art of food photography, which involves taking pictures indoors, at close range, without a flash, and without shaking the shit out of your camera.)
So obviously, when it came to Quebecois food, I couldn't leave without sampling poutine, more than once if at all possible. I'd heard so much about this dish but had never had it; it's said to be an acquired taste, but what's not to like about fries with gravy and cheese curds? Bring on the poutine! And oh, it got brought.
First up: A late lunch at Ma-Am-M Bolduc, a charming, quirky little spot on Avenue de Laurimier, where the laminated menus are covered in hand-drawn pictures. I got the poutine bourguinonne, which I'd heard was a must. Good gosh a-mighty. Crisp fries, ground meat, mushrooms, wine sauce ... it was fantastic. My belly protested, but my mouth perservered; I polished off nearly the entire thing -- and the plate shown below is the small, mind you -- and then ate nothing else the rest of the day except a hot dog and a couple of corn chips. (You can find much better pictures than mine, and a more detailed description, here.)
Meanwhile, everyone and their mother kept insisting that when it comes to the religion of poutine, late-night hangout La Banquise is its high holy temple. We finally made it there a couple days later, and maybe I would've felt differently if I hadn't already experienced such poutine nirvana, but I was underwhelmed. True enough, there were more poutine options available than either God or nature intended, but my poutine mart -- hot dogs, bacon, mushrooms -- was on the salty side, and unlike with my poutine at Ma-Am-M Bolduc, the cheese curds weren't in the slightest bit melted. Maybe they weren't supposed to be melted (I'm no poutine expert), but I'd already picked a favorite, and this didn't come close to toppling it. That said, if I'd been drunk and it had been three in the morning, I would've LOVED it.
My trip wasn't all cheese curds and gravy (though I wouldn't knock it if it were). I also insisted that we pay a visit to the Jean-Talon Market, a lovely tented-off space where you're treated to aisles and aisles of nearly every food under the sun: cheeses, meats, herbs, roasted nuts, crepes, fruits and vegetables ... We passed one stand whose shelves were full to bursting with fresh strawberries, and I didn't really want a whole container, but after we'd kept walking I could shake the craving; so we went back and I asked how much they would charge me for just one strawberry. The woman at the stand smiled and handed me one for free, and it was cold and ripe and every bit as scrumptious as I'd been imagining in my head. For lunch we had juicy sausages that I conveniently pretended weren't made from veal.
Another place I was determined to visit was Au Pied de Cochon, a monument to carnivorism that's amassed a rhapsodic cult following (it's one of Anthony Bourdain's favorite restaurants). The chef, Martin Picard, believes in embracing all parts of the animal; the name of the restaurant (and its signature dish) means "the pig's foot," if that gives you any indication as to the chef's true mission. Meat? High-end comfort fare? Foodie cred? I'm in! Plus, having just won $265 at craps in the Montreal casino, I was ready to spend some bank. Unfortunately I'd found out about this place too late to make reservations, but we showed up at the restaurant at 5:30 on a Sunday and commenced with the begging. The hostess reluctantly agreed to seat us at the bar, but only if we were gone by 7:00. We promised to eat fast.
I forwent the foie gras poutine, feeling that I should start off with something light and save room for the entree. So we began with an incredibly good bluefin tuna tartare, which taught me that all tartare needs to have something fried and crispy sprinkled on top of it. (I have no idea what it was. Fried bits of pig skin, for all I know.)
For the main course, once again I'd done my homework, and without hesitation I ordered the Duck in a Can. When it was ready, the waiter set a plate with two pieces of bread and some mashed potatoes on it in front of me, then produced a beige can that pretty much just said "can" on it. After opening it with a hand can opener, he poured the contents upon my plate -- at which point the guy sitting next to me, who was by now openly ogling my food, let out a gasp. The contents of said can: half a Magret duck, foie gras, balsamic reduction, bacon, roasted garlic, sprigs of thyme. Now, I am a dedicated and practiced meat-eater, and I will eat nearly anything, but I have never in my life had a dish as decadent as this. As I wolfed it down -- or tried to, anyway -- it occurred to me that this would be the perfect thing to request as your last meal before you're executed. Not only is it indescribably delicious, but it's also very likely to kill you anyway.
My cousin had the signature dish, the Pied de Cochon, which was also so good that if I were a chef, I'd consider killing Martin Picard so that I could steal the recipe. She did not, however, opt for the version stuffed with foie gras, which was probably wise. Buried under that mound of onions is the pig's foot; we asked the cute chef working in front of us what the yummy croquette was made of, and he explained that it was ... well, I could be misunderstanding his sign language, but I think he said it was the meat from the toes. Maybe we shouldn't have asked. I should add that after our meal -- in which we didn't even get dessert! -- we fell into a food coma so profound that we ended up going to bed at 8:30 pm. I am not kidding.
I had one more item on my "to eat" list, and that was Portuguese rotisserie chicken. My first choice, the heralded takeout place Romados, was closed when we got there one night; but on Tuesday we grabbed lunch at Coco Rico, a most delightful alternative. It had a different flavor than Peruvian rotisserie chicken, though I'd be hard-pressed to tell you how; and they slather it with sauce just before serving it to you, which gives it an extra added zing. I made sure to order a nata, a Portuguese custard tart that's almost like a creme brulee, except creamier and sweeter, with a bottom crust. It was right around now, after four days of eating to excess, that I started to worry about my health. We'd done a lot of walking, but still ... How many crunches do you suppose it takes to work off custard, foie gras, duck fat and several plates of fries?
For our last meal we ended up in Chinatown, where I ordered my type of comfort food: soy sauce chicken, roast duck (yeah, I know, more duck -- I really must have a death wish), Chinese vegetables and white rice. It was a solid, unmemorable meal except for the fact that at the end of it, the waiter leaned over and told me conspiratorially that we were getting the "special" in which we wouldn't have to pay tax, and I'd be paying in cash, right? Then I noticed that we'd been given the free sweet-bean dessert that only Chinese people get, even though we'd ordered everything in English. I grinned down at the bowl. My dad would be so proud.
