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| - The sparkling clean, tile-encrusted brewery of Le Cheval Blanc shown to me by the brewmaster after we had a couple of pints, doesn't produce much (its a six barrel system), but it certainly churns out fine beer to the taps of their dimly lit brewpub, embroidered in deep leather red, accented by steel and wood. Six CAD for a pint of a fine IPA (spiked with citron), well balanced, not too bitter, the citrus backed up by a judicious application of Citra Hops. Six CAD for an Imperial of cream ale; rich, filling, warming.
Me and the brewmaster talk in broken French and broken English about our favorite wines and beers, foraging for morels, cooking large dinners for friends. Music plays softly; a back patio waits for the snow to melt. We go outside and smoke a Gauloise cigarette apiece, swearing against the cold (he in French, I in Arabic). Its a nice moment; we speak of our beer and food, the failures of both of our nations (Canada apparently sucks as much as the U.S. these days), of the loves and losses and pains of everyday life in a big city. He wants to move to San Francisco, I want to move to Montreal. We both laugh at the improbability of either happening.
I fall in love with the bartender, her boyfriend walks in, they share a lingering kiss. I fall out of love with the bartender.
A quick shot of whiskey (on the house), and I have to move out, my ruddy complexion sophomorically optimistic in the face of a cold too profound for a man from San Francisco to comprehend. The bartender gives me a half-wave and a smile, I fall back in love.
My mustache freezes in the winter air.
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