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| - "Uh, sir? What was that you'd said you wanted in your Martini?"
"Vermouth."
"Oh. Don't get a lot of requests for that."
Christ, Jesus. Wondering why most of my reviews are for places in New York City? Well, there you go. If someone knows where I can get a decent 2:1 or 4:1 Martini in Montreal, please PM me. Finder's fee paid. First one's on me.
But I digress.
Americans have been very, very kind to me. Absurdly kind. And therefore, when a Montreal-bound American Wet Coast yelper stumbled across my few Montreal reviews and PM-ed me a whole lotta sincere questions about smoked meat and Globe and automatic weapons and local cannibalism indices and poutine, it ended up with us meeting in a downtown steakhouse for a slice of (non-human) protein and a lie-of-the-land chinwag. Vargas was drawn out of a mutual hat; close to her hotel, and a redolent meat-smelling place I'd frequently walked past and wondered about. They won the coin toss.
It's not a *bad* restaurant. Really. Let me explain.
Drinks at the bar... Well, young lady, Martinis should have been covered in your basic bartending manual. I didn't ask for a dry one. I only tipped you properly because you were courteous enough to *ask*, and because what you finally re-mixed for me was in fact drinkable.
After downing our libations, we asked to be moved to a broad, flat surface, there to ritually devour the Flesh of Animals™. This was accomplished briskly. Good table, but the room was nearly empty, so we served as window candy. No problem. I had a clean shirt on.
We began to peruse the menus. Mademoiselle turned hers upside-down a few times before wondering aloud what language it was written in. I called the waiter over, and asked if an English version existed. Provided in an eyeblink, without a murmur. Bienvenu a Montréal.
Linguistically sorted, my foreign conspirator opted for a rib-eye. I defaulted to my "when you see rack of lamb on a menu, order it" setting, with an agreement to swap forkfuls.
"Potatoes, sir? Fried, baked, or mash?"
"Fries, please."
Ordered a Caesar salad alongside. Glass of house Shiraz to wash it down. Big, stupid, happy fighting wine. I'm no sophisticate; I just like the stuff with coarse red meat.
Their house Shiraz is as sweet as the village idiot. I wanted to crawl into the glass with a warm muzzy smile.
The Caesar salad was very nice. Rich dressing, crunchy lettuce, good portion. A bit above my average expectations for a decent starter salad.
Lamb, ordered medium rare, arrived medium rare. With a decent, interesting pile of pan-fried vegetables. And *mashed* potatoes. Mashed. Note that I'd ordered fries with that.
The potatoes and vegetables were both around blood temperature. The lamb was piping hot. *Everything*on my plate tasted superb, though, temperature notwithstanding. The lamb's rosemary sauce was thick, rich, tasty, and wholly appropriate. The vegetables had been seasoned and cauterised by an expert. And the mashed potatoes, while exactly not what I'd asked for, were too luscious to send back.
I also traded a bit of my sheep for a couple of cubic inches of mademoiselle's steak, and it was wholly as good as anything I'm able to cook on my charcoal barbeque. These people can handle open flame real well.
Table service was a bit quirky; our waiter was a character, somewhat, but effortlessly courteous and responsive nonetheless. He worked for his tip, and his manners and attentiveness almost made up for his and his kitchen's lapses.
What the place needs to embrace, seriously, is attention to detail. To wit: A barkeep who doesn't recognise vermouth (fucksakes!) as a Martini ingredient; getting mash when I'd ordered fries; lukewarm potatoes and vegetables served with proper-hot meat. Didn't ruin the experience, exactly, but it's what I'll remember and talk about. And write about. (Oh, look. Duh.)
If you fetch up here? You'll be treated well, yes. Nice room. Very polite staff. Tasty food. Their cooks do know how to spice a steak and make a sauce. Clean restrooms. But bring a chalk and slate, because you may need to spell some things out to the front line staff. Like what a goddamned Martini's made of. And what a fried potato looks like. (Hint: "Fried" does not mean "Hammered Flat".)
Three stars, mostly for meat, manners, and attitude. They do appreciate your business. They just need to figure out how to earn repeat visits.
RTFM, d00ds.
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