A solo food trip to Montreal

Learning to be brave again, one meal at a time

I like to tell my therapist that I used to be brave. 

I think, externally, I seem fairly brave – I started a company, sold it, learned how to renovate my house, and now I’ve started a YouTube channel. To me these things are just work. You make a budget, try to stick to the math, and if it fails you get a jobby job or hire a contractor. The Excel spreadsheet decides your next action.

But there isn’t an Excel spreadsheet for social engagements. In my early 20s my social anxiety didn’t stop me – I moved to Toronto, alone – I knew no one. I went to Southern California for 2 weeks, alone. Then to Germany. Edinburgh. And of course, to Montreal.

Somewhere along the way I stopped being brave – either from 15 years of traveling for work, or when the realities of leading a startup beat the joy out of my life one pivot at time. Travel was no longer fun. Travel was busy. Travel meant going to San Francisco six times a year for back-to-back meetings. Travel was going to New York overnight to run a workshop. Then onto Boston for what felt like ten minutes. Travel was exhausting and stressful and the food was never truly great, or if it was I couldn’t slow down enough to appreciate it.

Business travel keeps you in the tourist locations and business centers. When you’re running between meetings you’re getting Starbucks – it’s safe – you’re not going to get gassy during your presentation. They have WiFi and clean bathrooms. Business travel glorifies not sleeping, you’re too busy (and tired) to see anything interesting, but you’ll get a photo of every Auntie Anne’s pretzel shop. Identical at every airport. The banal sameness is comforting and safe, because business travel doesn’t allow you (well, me) to be brave. All of your braveness is saved for a PowerPoint that could have been an email.

The kind of travel I used to do, back when I was brave, was to explore a neighbourhood every day. To feel what it’s like to be in a city, not only a tourist. I like to walk and experience the place (walking also helps you eat more). I like to enjoy fewer, better moments instead of rushing to get a photo of everything a blog article told me I must see. If I’m spending money on food, I like it to be memorable – not a $20 sandwich that I can make better at home. I like to have a robust plan, but flexible enough that I can abandon ship when the schedule (or my belly) is too full.

I haven’t done this kind of travel in 15 years. Most of my business travel was filled with The Stress and The Regret, which always made me want to go home. Without a guide, where do I go? What food do I order? What am I missing? Is everyone judging me for being here alone?

This is also my first trip post-pandemic, post-becoming an internet food person. Who am I anymore? Can I be brave again?

I decided to go to Montreal. I would travel by train. I would stay overnight in Toronto – both to avoid a very long travel day and to see my friends I’ve dearly missed while hiding at home. I would eat. I would treat travel days as experiences – instead of waking up at 5am for the first train to “maximize my time in Montreal” (where I would be a zombie and enjoy nothing), I would take the 11am train so I could sleep in, have coffee at my own pace, and enjoy the train ride instead of simply existing on a train. I would see fewer things, but I enjoy each of them more.

To fill my schedule I asked my friends who have lived or loved in Montreal where to eat. What is the one place on your list I must go? I received 7-page long Google Docs in return. I love my friends.

Below is my travel journal. My goal was to find comfort with myself, to be alone in public, with my food and my camera – and to enjoy it.

Friday, a stopover in Toronto

On the way out of Kitchener I stopped at the Eby St. Bodega to get treats for my friends – olive oil and vinegar, a box of pasta that broke (which I would later find in every crevice of my backpack). I went before they opened and I ran into two food lovers already outside: my first Bodega line-up. Kitchener is happening. Dino (one of the owners) gave me a turkey sandwich for the train.

There isn’t a direct train from Kitchener to Montreal. I decided to spend the night in Toronto and make up for those lost dinners with friends. I met my friend Chris for lunch, she took me to Forno Cultura, which is like if the Bodega expanded to a city-wide chain with a production staff. They have very similar sandwiches and baked goods. I asked Chris if we could A/B test Dino’s sandwich against Forno’s. The Bodega won, we think for the bread (thanks to Golden Hearth) and the pickles.

Forno Cultura makes a good sandwich, but the bread is crusty/chewy in a way that will cut your mouth. Still excellent, but I like kinder baguette.

We met up with a handful of other friends at Piano Piano for dinner. I brought my camera camera. We agreed ahead of time to get the family-style dinner – shared plates selected by the staff to try a little bit of everything from the menu.

We started with cocktails, mine was a rosemary negroni that tasted like a Swiss Chalet Festive Feast. We discussed how to pick wine. We all like good wine, but none of us know how to read a wine list, let alone make a decision. In the end we settled for a Barbera, a wine region in Northern Italy. There were two Barberas, one was called NEH! – we called her the Angry Barbara. Perhaps its not the most sophisticated way to pick wine, but we did ask the server if Angry Barbara (“bar-bear-a” she corrected) was good, and she said Angry Barbara was excellent. Angry Barbara was a whole mood.

Piano Piano does Italian food, and while I haven’t been to Italy to compare, the food was excellent. We started with whipped ricotta on toast (a very impressive first bite), warm olives with caramelized onions and confit garlic (to be replicated at home), burrata with focaccia, clams in spicy marinara sauce, fried calamari, and a refreshing prosciutto filled with light brightness. We thought this was the meal. It was only the appetizers.

Next came a Neapolitan style pizza with bouncy, chewy dough. The sauce wasn’t sweet or savoury, but intensely comforting (I want to learn its secrets). Ravioli stuffed with ricotta, served in a delicious bolognese (more secrets to learn), and a truffle mushroom gnocchi (I cannot truffle). Surely it’s time for dessert?

No. Next there was a roasted chicken breast with potatoes. The best Brussels sprouts I’ve ever had. And veal parmigiana!

By now everyone was so full of joy (and food, and Angry Barbara). Then came 3 desserts to share: the lemon cheesecake was my favourite, but the Nutella tiramisu and a chocolate caramel budino were all glorious ways to end the meal.

All this for $65 per person (for groups of 6 or more). Should you be in Toronto it is a must visit. I will be back and I will be buying frozen pizzas when I finally buy a Yeti cooler.

Saturday – to Montreal

I slept well. I slept late. This was part of my plan – to move slowly, with room for peace. I left at 11 on the train to Montreal, with a 10pm dinner reservation at Vin Mon Lapin.

We walked, it was perhaps too cold for it, but there were sights to be seen. You only truly get to know a city by walking it.

Vin Mon Lapin is a place for people who love good food and good wine, so it’s important to bring someone who loves both. It’s a tapas-style menu with exceptional food. We sat at the bar overlooking the restaurant, which is great for people watching and playing a game of backstory.

The waitress scolded me for my new parka – ”Is this one of ours?” meaning, a Kanuk parka made in Montreal (it was) “This is not the weather for this! It’s too warm!” She was not wrong. She was wrong, however, when she thought I was Marko Savic, the Serbian basketball player. “We looked you up when your reservation came in, but then we saw you – not tall enough to play basketball.” 

I am a big guy, but 6’1” is not enough. My search engine optimization (SEO) is not enough either, as they did not find my YouTube channel.

The food was exceptional, but I had more chemistry with the wait staff than my date. I learned how much food people matter to me, and it’s better to dine alone than with the wrong person. 

There was one menu item that caught my eye “Un très bon anchois” – “A very good anchovy.” And my friends, it was a very good anchovy. There was bread with olive oil and salted butter (a divine combination I’ve never tried). The oil itself was the best olive oil I’ve had to date (Lazio, La Villana, 2021, available on Vin Mon Lapin’s website). There was guinea fowl cooked with a yellow wine and schmaltz sauce (to be replicated at home with chicken), roasted honey nut squash (good, but not great), radicchio salad with shaved fois gras (immaculate, and can it be made at home with mortadella? You and I will find out together.), and finally a Paris Brest for dessert, served with cassis syrup, which felt like a beautiful way to close the loop on this set of memories and connections.

I had a red wine that was excellent (A Los Viñateros Bravos, Granítico Cinsault, 2021 – in case Anna from the Bodega is reading this and wants to order bottles for the shop, or if you, dear reader, want to try this at home). There was also an aged sake which was lovely.

I parted ways with my date knowing we were looking for different things. Which was fine, I was happy with the food. I was alone again, but happy about it. Oddly excited to continue my adventure in solitude.

Sunday

Sunday I slept in – I had delusions of going to Larry’s for breakfast, but those did not come to pass (my friend Marci did go on Thursday, without me, and raved about it. I must return to Montreal soon.)

I started in search of coffee, in Mile End, the neighbourhood I previously spent time in when my friend Janice lived there after we finished University – it's been almost 15 years since then. I stopped by Cafe Olimpico, which was the same as it was then: Italian style espresso, a good pistachio cream donut, and plenty of atmosphere.

I FaceTimed Janice, now in San Francisco, and woke her up while standing outside her old apartment. Miles appeared in a robe. The house next door to her old apartment is for sale. My hope is that they buy it so I have more reasons to come back to Montreal, but the peer pressure of this newsletter is not enough for them to make permanent life decisions from. I must continue to work on my SEO.

Janice had passionately recommended Chez Claudette. I arrived to find a hole-in-the-wall diner with famous people’s photos and a wait staff that didn’t speak English (it’s a French city), but who did their best to make me feel very comfortable and welcome.

I texted Janice all 3 pages (8.5x14”) of poutine options for discussion. We agree on the Céline Dion poutine, partially because I wanted Montreal smoked meat, partially because Janice was adamant about getting mushrooms, but mostly because I love Céline (my heart breaks for her). The server asked if I wanted small or large (there was also a bebe option). I asked for a size reference, then noticed Janice had texted, in all caps, “DO NOT ORDER A LARGE!”

I got a small. It was so much food. It was the best poutine I’ve ever had in my life. I saved half to bring home to Dino (of Bodega fame) to prove to him that it was better than his recommendation, which I did not go to (it was closed).

I walked. A lot. I stopped by Drawn & Quarterly and picked up The Book of Difficult Fruit (also the name of my memoir about my love life) – it’s a very good read. I passed by a donut shop that not one, not two, but three groups of people in front of me went into. One man doubled back to hold the door open for me. I still regret not following him inside, especially after following Bernie Beigne on Instagram and reading their 4.8 star Google reviews. But I already had a donut. I needed room for dinner. I have regrets, but the nostalgic kind that make a good story.

Drawn & Quarterly is a Montreal institution, a bookstore with style and taste

I called my friend Christina on my walk back to my hotel. I lamented ignoring Anna’s advice to bring a full-sized Yeti cooler. More regrets, or rather, learnings – the kind that drive you to travel again. To embrace your cooler self. If you want to be the kind of person that brings back 10lbs of French butter on a train, you should. Unfortunately I could only fit 1lb of butter in my new camera bag (made in Montreal).

I walked to Elena for an early dinner reservation, which turned out to be a very nice time for a solo dinner. I was able to chat with my server about my trip. She asked what was next, I said Bar George, she made a face. I said “Not good?” She said “It’s a classic for a reason, but I would go to Alma.” I should have gone to Alma.

At Elena I got fried cauliflower to start, then a kale caesar (Anna’s one recommendation on the menu) which had a non-lemon sharpness and tahini, it cut beautifully through what must be 200g of parmesan cheese. The pizza was exceptional – a sourdough crust that rivals my own. I described it to my server as tasting like home. As she likely thought I was a basketball player, not an internet food person, she probably thought I was nuts. This pizza had radicchio, a mild blue cheese, and hot honey. I added some chili oil. I would have eaten the whole pie if I hadn’t already eaten half of Montreal.

I was recommended a natural, skin contact orange wine that I will think about for years (Pierre Frick Noir & Gris from Alsace, France – find this one – and a red I’ve already forgotten.)

They had house-made panettone for dessert. I shared that I was making my own, which perhaps clarified my earlier pizza comment. “Only a mad man tries to make panettone.” This panettone was my favourite of the trip, with an excellent chocolate and deep orange taste. It was served with egg nog cream which I think distracted from the whole affair, but I understand why they add it – if you’re not familiar with panettone it can come across as dry. If you’re in Toronto you can buy Elena’s panettone at Grape Witches.

Elena made my favourite meal – not because the food was the best (Piano Piano was), but I felt like I was myself. Alone and free to eat without shame or anxiety. I was whole, at least for that dinner. This experience helped me see that I’ve embraced who I am: a food nerd, eating for joy, documenting (but not be distracted) with my camera camera, and learning about the people and places the food is from.

That I made this discovery at a restaurant who’s web address is coffeepizzawine.com feels on brand.

Monday

There was one recommendation on my list no one had been to: Mano Figa. Even my waitress at Elena hadn’t heard of it. It was a gamble, but the worst outcome would be a bad coffee.

At Mano Figa I found a neighbourhood gem. If I were a Montrealer, this would be my Bodega. Mano Figa is the smaller, breakfast-ier counterpart to Mano Cornuto, which is a restaurant. I really need to ask people for their names (and pronouns, apologies for all my assumptions). The person serving me was very kind and let me into the restaurant to take photos before it had fully opened. He walked me through the pastry case, some baked in house, some from Hof Kelsten, and then showed me their focaccia pizzas.

I cannot resist a focaccia pizza.

I got a slice with onions and pancetta, knowing I’d be too full for my next stop. It was the best slice of focaccia pizza I’ve ever had in my life, with the pancetta melting like butter, instead of crispy and chewy. It was so good I bought another slice to bring home to the Bodega in the hopes that Dino & Anna can learn its secrets. The coffee, Italian style, was also excellent. I got to sit with the restaurant’s dog as I finished my coffee. 10/10, I would live in the apartments upstairs.

Dino had one recommendation for me: Ma Poule Mouillée. He had been hyping this Portuguese chicken poutine for a week. Janice had been hyping Chez Claudette. It was meant to be war. Instead, they were closed on Mondays, which I discovered after walking across Montreal.

In a panic, I began to look for places nearby. Then I remembered Hof Kelsten. (Actually, Anna texted me to go there, but it’s more romantic if I pretend it happened thanks to the kindness of Mano Figa).

Hof Kelsten was the most Montreal place I visited on the whole trip.

Me: “I’ve never been here before, I’m visiting from Kitchener, and my friend said this is the one place I must visit. What do I eat?”

The two women behind the counter, early 20s but spiritually Golden Girls, began to argue.

Rose: “A light sandwich, egg salad, then you can eat more desserts.”

Sophia: “Egg salad? Look at him, he’s a big man! Egg salad won’t fill him up, he’ll be hungry again in 20 minutes. A big man needs a roast beef sandwich! And it’s the best one on the menu.”

Rose: “I don’t know, I don’t think its for him.”

Later, we discovered Rose (not her real name) hadn’t even tried the roast beef sandwich.

Sophia: “You haven’t even tried the menu and you make recommendations?” she spat in English tinged with a French Canadian accent and the outrage of an Italian grandmother. I loved every minute of it.

I did have the roast beef sandwich, on a tender brioche bun. I informed them both it was delicious.

So much food these days is loud – it must stand out in a sea of Instagram-worthy moments, punching with flavour, colour, and aesthetic. Everyone and everything needs more energy. Hof Kelston’s pastries are the antidote to this. When I tasted the danoise à la cannelle, a cinnamon bun, I discovered what I had been missing from my food.

This pastry changed me. It wasn’t bombastic. It was gentle. It caressed you with cinnamon, butter, and only a bit of sugar. It wasn’t there to compete with Instagram, it was there to hold you in its arms. To rethink what food can be with a little more care, a little more softness. Gentle food that reaches deep in your heart. Quiet, soft, calming – not boring.

I brought their panettone home and it had the same gentleness. Its smell is now infused into the wool sweaters I used to cushion the boxes. I broke the zipper on my carry-on bag to bring it back. It was worth it. More regrets for the Yeti cooler.

I had plans to meet my friend Marci and her colleague – both in Montreal for work – in Place d’Armes. It was a town square decked out in holiday decorations with a very talented guitarist playing Hotel California. I presented Marci with pastries from Hof Kelston: an apple turnover, and a pastry filled with cheese and herbs to channel the taste of focaccia (I must learn how to make it). There were more tears for the pastry. Marci went to Hof Kelston herself on Thursday for more, with the question of how many baguettes is too many to bring on a plane? (Marci reports the limit does not exist. Air Canada suggests a carry on max of size of 22x14x9, suggesting a maximum of 28 baguettes unless you plan to check a bag. )

We had time to kill before dinner. Suddenly after being alone in Montreal I had friends – I felt like a local, touring them around to show them the best of the city that I was also visiting. We walked to Atwater Marche, where I found French butter, cheese, and more regret for not bringing a full-sized Yeti cooler.

We went to Mano Cornuto for a drink, since the morning’s visit to Mano Figa was so impressive. Mano Cornuto was excellent. I had more orange wine from Aslace, this time M’orte Mann (also great, but I won’t be asking the Bodega to order any). Crudo, which was divine. Focaccia with burrata. We should have stayed for dinner, it would have been one for the history books. But we had reservations.

We went to Bar George, which I don’t want to write about – not because of their feelings, but to spare my friend who recommended it. I will list its positives: it has excellent atmosphere, it’s a bit of a spectacle inside a giant, historic mansion in the middle of downtown Montreal. The vibe checks out. But the menu has not changed since 1980 (unless the 80s are trending in food as well as fashion), the still water was chlorinated, the food lacked brightness, and everything we tried to order was already sold out. The wait staff actively ignored us. For an event you couldn’t beat the atmosphere, but for the price (it was my most expensive meal in Montreal) I expected better food.

We all agreed to start keeping lemons, tiny vinegar bottles, and small tins of salt in our bags (all available a the Bodega this holiday season) The lesson: listen to the server at Elena. I think my next trip will be less planned, organized by asking the server for their must visit location to define my next stop.

Tuesday

I had delusions of going to St. Viateur for bagels (good, but never as good as getting them after the bar in your 20s) and pastry shop to bring kouign amann home (closed Tuesdays).

I abandoned ship to have an easy travel day: slow coffee at the hotel, a nice walk to Station Centrale, discovering the VIA business class lounge, and being lulled by the train where I read almost the entirety of The Book of Difficult Fruit.

I returned home inspired, accepting food as the central driver of my life. Accepting myself, an internet food person. I will bring my camera, my heart, and my appetite wherever I go from here. This version of me may not be what everyone else wants, but I like who I am for once. I think that’s enough.

It’s my life to live. My blog to write. My photos to take. It’s time I live it for myself.

Here is my Montreal travel list, should you plan to go. I will be back.

My must visits:

• For breakfast, coffee, or lunch: Mano Figa, Hof Kelston, Cafe Olimpico (in Mile End), Chez Claudette, Atwater Marche

• For dinner: Vin Mon Lapin, Elena, Mano Cornuto

These made the list, but I did not go, but received stellar reviews from others:

• For breakfast or lunch: Bernie Beigne, Au Kougin Amann, St. Viateur Bagels, Larry’s, Ma Poule Mouille

• For specialty coffee: Cordova St Henri, Myriade

• For dinner: Alma, Joe Beef (good luck getting a reservation)

Thank you to Marci Geisler for editing this newsletter, and for the company in Montreal.