| rev:text
| - Spotted this French bistro a couple of weeks back, on my way to a book-signing. Not my usual neighborhood, but what I saw through the window looked so nice that I popped in for their card so I'd be able to find it again. This weekend, made an excuse to stop in for supper.
I am a genius.
They open at 5:30 PM. I rolled up just before six; peered through the windows. No patrons. Not one. Just four women in severe black dresses and horsetails, looking ready. Walked in.
They sent one of the littler ones to fend me off at the door. But I was way ahead of her.
"Hi. I was wondering if I could take a seat at the bar."
"What? BUT OF COURSE!" And she put down the lifeboat oar she'd been about to pole me away me with and waved me in graciously, her knuckles barely cracking. One gets treated differently, I find, when, dining alone, one makes a deliberate effort *not* to tie up a table for two on a Saturday night.
They immediately decided that I was harmless, and that they liked me. Menu, bread plate, and water carafe hit the bar before my coat finished settling on my chairback.
"Something to drink?" This, from the little one with the hipster glasses who'd been orginally sent to kill me and dispose of my carcass. She looked bright. I decided to test her. Asked for a gin Martini. Montreal is not a Martini town, very much.
"Certainly. Shaken? Stirred? And I have Beefeater or Bombay Sapphire. Olive?"
"Lemon, please." Christ. She'd done this before.
The Martini was small, contained sufficient vermouth, and was rich and viscous due to a very short shake. Half-slice of lemon in lieu of a twist or zest. 7/10, which is better than average for Montreal.
They sent their lovely blonde brick shithouse, next. In a voice like butter, she asked me if I had any questions about the menu.
"Yes- one. The onglet... does that come with fries?"
"No! It comes with..." She described a concoction of thinly-sliced potatoes stewed in some kind of garlic and cream sauce. Not my usual style. I must've made a face.
"Huh. Was kind of hoping for a steak-frites."
"I can ask the kitchen if they'll do it with fries, you know. Just give me a min-"
Girlie, you just earned your tip. "No need. I'll take it as described." Ordered a hearts of Boston lettuces in a clear garlic vinaigrette, so I'd have something to drive the steak through.
And as they were muttering my order at the cooks in the engine-room, the Saturday supper trade started coming in, and they all had reservations. By the time my salad hit the bar, the girls in black were in full whirl in the front room.
Didn't stop them from taking care of the guy at the bar, though. As I said, there were four of them. Jesus. Three and a half of them were good enough to work in Manhattan. I can't remember when I've seen Montreal restaurant staff that alert, and that competent. They moved like Rafale fighters, and planned table service for a group of fifteen in the back room the way section leaders explain taking out a pillbox. Bread plate and water carafe were kept topped-off even as the bodies piled up in the salon, the refills coming in like Exocet missles.
The salad was simple, fresh, and very subtly-dressed. Well-presented. Delicious. The steak took long enough to follow it that I was able to drain my Martini. Hearing sizzling sounds in the kitchen, I flagged down the doyenne.
"Have you got wine by the glass? Something like a Shiraz or a Chianti? To go with a steak."
She described four reds they sold by the glass. I opted for a Portuguese one that sounded like what Popeye would drink to put himself in the mood for a bathhouse orgy. Thirty seconds later, there were three of them looking for a bottle of it. A minute after that they realised they didn't sell it by the glass any more. Sheepish grins.
Went with something French they let me taste. It was okay.
Steak arrived. *Beautifully* plated. Big, thick hanger steak, finely-sliced échalotes on top, with a clump of the aforementioned potatoes and an unexpected array of gorgeous, colorful vegetables. Carrot, salsify, yellow pepper, some kind of strident green thing, and tiny, pan-fried cherry tomatoes.
Steak was wonderful. In fact, everything on the plate was Top. Notch. The flavors were fantastic. Only complaint was the temperature... Just a little bit on the cooling-down side. Served on a heated plate, too, so it would have been worse otherwise. I ate all the bits of it, though, and happily.
Bread refills kept slamming in like FedEx parcels as I chewed my meat. Never even came close to running out of water.
Ordered an Armagnac as digestif. On the drinks list, but they were out of it. Went with Bowmore instead. Not exactly punishment.
Restroom: Immaculate.
Tipped well. Was graciously bowed out.
Four stars, but ONLY because of the 2 things on the booze list that weren't available, the slightly-cool food, and their utterly unjoinable WiFi. Mere bagatelles, really. I am definitely going back.
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