Montreal is generally regarded as the most sophisticated city in North America. It combines all the ingenuity and attitude of the North Americans with European, Arabic, Middle Eastern and North African culture and history.
And Food Glorious Food, my friends.
On Sunday of my weekend there, Giles and Kirsten took me to the Markets at Jean Talon. We nearly lost Giles to his favourite cheese shop, where I took photos of him alternating between a bent-over prayer position with his nose to the glass cheese cabinet (trying to make a choice) and the Simpsons' Mr Burns' "Excellent" position of rubbing his hands together. Unfortunately I didn't photograph his Wallace and Gromit impression, "Cheese, Gromit !!" Very funny.
Onwards to the fruit and veg markets where we loaded up Giles' car with fresh supplies for Kirsten for the week. I have never seen a fruit and veg market like it. Tiny wheeled shopping carts and wall to wall people talking in all the languages of the world. There were root vegetables NOT- labeled in either French or English that I didn't recognise at all. You could buy sugar cane the size of a walking stick. What for? To use as a home security device or to get up those crazy stairs I posted photos of? To give the dog to chew or to practice kendo with? To chase certain religious sects off your front verandah when they interrupt your omlette and coffee on a Saturday morning?
I wanted to know but didn't want to ask. If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.
We went to some poncey-looking delis which were great too and tried some ice-cider. Like ice wine, the apples are hand picked when they are frozen and made into an alcoholic cider that you would drink as a dessert wine only. Excellent stuff but very sweet and powerful. Kirsten guided us through, speaking French with a Quebecqois accent all day to shopkeepers and making my mashed-up French blessedly redundant.
Onwards to a late lunch at Schwartz' jewish deli and cafe, a Montreal institution for more than 40 years. I don't believe they've redecorated in the same time period either. It is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with an outstanding reputation of serving reasonable-priced excellent smoked meats to the public and to the stars. A "sandwich" consists of two pieces of rye bread with a stack of about 5 layers of corned beef inside with your choice of mustard. You also get to choose whether you want your meat, lean, partly fat or fat, which surprised me. The waiter was a fan of Crocodile Dundee (not the Crocodile Hunter) and was very proud to have us all at his table.
Vegetables dare not enter Schwartz' unless they go through the back door and are prepared to properly picked. Kirsten is a fan of dill pickles and she and Giles also had some hot peppers which I passed on.
Stuffed and feeling fortified, we went onto a little "hike" of Mont Royal, for views of the city and to watch the cross country skiers at twilight. The snowy walks were exactly as I had imagined Canada in my mind's eye and the old-style street lamps caused me to stop and declare out loud that I had arrived in CS Lewis' Narnia. Giles asked me where the talking animals were too but I think I told him to shut up and stop ruining my moment :-)
The views of the city were terrific and more frozen-looking photos there which I will post when I can.
That evening Kirsten had Ultimate training so Giles and I did what Aussies do well- went straight for the pub. Brutopia is a good pub downtown that brews it's own beer. I tried the honey beer and ended up with a pint of Raspberry lager and Giles had something more manly and we listened to the live music before going for some pizza and then home.
On Monday Giles left me "A Paddington Bear" at the station (see previous post) and I was lost within about 5 seconds of stepping outside the station. I have had a lot of trouble navigating from the sun so far north of the equator and Montreal has a lot of very clever underground systems to ensure that you spend minimum time out of doors, but end up popping up like a wombat at various points, sleepy faced and confused as to how to cross the road without getting squashed.
A word on fashion. Montreal women are very elegant. They move from speaking French to English to French within the same sentence and I am sure a lot of those plush coats I saw were real fur. Now, I don't approve of the current fur trade for fashion. Necessity in some of the remote regions of the world quite possibly. My jury is out on that one. However, I have no problem with people wearing their vintage furs. Nothing that can be done about the past. My Mum has some furs which she inherited which she has never or hardly worn, I mean really, who would in Oz? I would've fitted in a treat had I access to her wardrobe that Monday.
As it was, I needed to find a new coat. My down bomber jacket was keeping me warm from neck to hip but in Montreal the snow comes down from the sky, blown up from the ground in the wind, and sideways off buildings. I needed a hood. I needed leg coverage... I needed... a Porsche.
I don't buy designer. My friend Jeremy gave me a Louis Vuitton scarf for my birthday last year which he picked up in Asia during one of his opera tours. It started to fray at the edges on the second wear so I suspect something is smelling a bit like a knock-off in the nation of Malaysia. I am only disappointed because it was a gift and my friend was either ripped off or telling me porky pies when he gave it to me.
In Montreal the down coats had all been snapped up on sale and the polyester I-look-ok-but-I-am-going-to-die-in-Winnipeg-horrors were the last left on sale. Until I landed myself in the only Porsche store in North America. Obviously the cars aren't doing so well since Ferrari took over in the sexy stakes since the 1990s, and they are now making quality clothes. At 60% off, I am now getting around in the human equivalent of a walking sleeping bag. Nobody can tell if I have the body of Monroe or Fat Albert under this thing, which this time of year, is fine by me.
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