| rev:text
| - Spotted this place during a rare walk along St-Laurent. It had just gotten dark, it was already cold, I'd been walking for three hours straight getting the Christmas and spice shopping done...and I was hungry. "Hmm. Ramen?" Hit one more store I needed to do, then doubled back a few blocks. I was thinking of the warm light I'd seen through the window, and ramen...and maybe they had gyoza? Got to the door and read the carte in the window. They did.
Montrealers don't eat supper at five on a Saturday. Well, since I'd had breakfast at Hurley's at 12:30, this 'd be lunch. Lunch crowd didn't get the memo, though, because I was the only patron in the place.
To my surprise, it was laid out exactly like a ramen joint on 56th Street in Manhattan that I've reviewed; a few little tables up front in the windows, and a biggish L-shaped counter, with the cooks behind it, dominating the room. Feeling good about familiar turf, I took a stool at the counter. Looked around. Drank it in.
Warm halogen light, cool Miles Davis jazz, a sushi-cutter calmly trimming some blocks of fish-ish protein...and everything was very, very clean. The counter under my elbows was *spotless*. And then I met my waiter.
"To go, or to eat here?" In French.
"Pour manger ici." Got handed a menu.
I'd never eaten ramen in Montreal before; only in New York City and Vancouver. Most of the words on the menu were the same, but they featured a couple of extra adjectives. I asked about that.
"What's shoyu?" I asked, figuring I'd be sneered at. Instead, I got a very considerate explanation of what kind of broth it was, and how it compared to their other ones. I started liking this guy.
"Okay, then: A plate of pork gyoza, a bowl of chasu-men in shoyu broth, and a Sapporo, please." Chasu-men was described as a roasted pork and vegetable ramen. Yeah, I could eat that. But I'm an absolute round-heeled slut for a plate of gyoza.
Beer arrived immediately. The gyoza followed soon enough. Six bulging little half-circles on a long rectangular tray with a small vat of dipping sauce at the far end. They smelled wonderful. The waiter caught me smelling.
"You like spicy?"
"Yeah, a little."
"This, very good on gyoza. " And he sat a bottle of what looked like pepper oil in front of me.
Now, I've only ever been offered chili paste for gyoza, but what the hell. I picked up the bottle, stared at it, and made to drizzle a bit on the dumplings, when the waiter very gently corrected me. "Pour it in there," he murmured, pointing at the vat of dipping sauce. So I did. Just a blot.
And I dipped.
ZOMFG.
Best. Gyoza. EVAR.
They were hot, they were brightly-flavored, they were plump like oysters, and the pimped-out dipping sauce was bursting with soy-y, sesame richness. I devoured them quickly so I wouldn't have time to be tempted to mate with one. Wiping away tears of joy, I anticipated my soup.
And all of a sudden, there it was. Reasonably-sized bowl, not overfull of noodles, lotsa sprouts and other green bits, and three big square slices of pork floating atop the whole. Garnished with crunchy green scallion rings. I put my nose in, and it smelled fragrant. Glory.
As I grabbed my chopsticks, there were two quiet thunks on the counter at my head.
"Spices, and (mumble) garlic," offered the waiter. I thanked him and eyed the bottles. The spices I recognised as a Japanese red chili powder concoction I like, but I'd never seen a jar of dessicated garlic fragments like these before. (Had he said 'roasted"?) I tasted the soup as served and found it excellent but on the subtle side, so in went a fingernail's worth from both jars.
I have to say, that waiter knows how to season what he sells. GodDAMN. The spices took the broth to somewhere special. And the pork slices, well, they'd obviously been marinated or something, because they had depths of flavor totally unrelated to the broth. I methodically destroyed that bowl of soup. I even ate the seaweed.
It was, simply, an utterly delicious luncheon. And my water glass was kept topped-off, the light and music were great, the restroom was clean and had plenty of hand towels, and my waiter was a kind, professional presence through it all.
I've had less fun and been treated worse while eating 85-dollar settings in really classy, professional places that I adore. With a beer and taxes and a good tip, I got out of this noodle house for $26.50. And not overstuffed. Just perfect.
Places like this one make Montreal winters imaginable.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)