fair mount

Nudged by my friend Joel to compare rivals Fairmount and St. Viateur, I grudgingly left the serene and empty guesthouse for a last walk on Laurier. 

The line was out the door, always a good sign. 

Sure, they've added unconventional flavors, a crime against bagels. But they sell reasonably priced smoked salmon and homemade matzoh. (I skipped this because I was down to my last $10.)

They proudly proclaim they were the first bagels in Space (sic), Mission STD-124. 

Look at that slab of dough! The man in front of me was getting six of everything to take back to Alberta. He even bought a bag of sesame seeds. 

Outside I bit into my tout garni, not warm but with a hefty chew, to see what the fuss was about. And as I've said about so many things on this trip, I would return just for another Fairmount bagel covered in seeds. 

This picture is on the back of their business cards. The only part it gets wrong is all the white faces. Part of what gives Montreal its spirit is immigrants: the Moroccan man who insisted on helping with my suitcase to the metro station, the French owner of my guesthouse, the taxi driver who told me I would love it here, and feel at home. And I did. The people who live in Montreal call it a village. It's also not an accident that the most authentic bagel shop in NYC today is Thai owned. 

Tonight I will sleep in my own bed, in a country not so far from Mile End and Le Plateau Mont-Royal. And dream of excuses to come back to charming Quebec. 

Quebec cuisine

Warning: this will make you hungry!

I met my friend Chris for a snacking adventure through Montreal's Jewish and Breton heritage. First stop: St. Viateur, one of two famous purveyors of Montreal bagels. 

Sesame bagels warm from the oven after a bath with a trace of honey. Try topping that. 

Okay, we did. Our next stop was Bleu et Persillé,  a new cheese shop. We sampled five or six Quebec cheeses and discovered that Antoine used to work at La Fromagerie in San Francisco. 

They had a whole row of fondue and another of fresh yogurt. 

You can bet I'm bringing home fromage. 

We had an exemplary quiche (dairy in Quebec rivals France or Ireland) at Trois M and then stopped in at another patisserie for buttery, crunchy Kouign amann. 

I don't know how people in Montreal don't all weigh 300 pounds. 

Chris had to go back to her real life. After dropping off my cheese at the guesthouse, I took a bus up the mountain (Mont Royal is more of a big hill) and then strolled down through the forest to Schwartz's deli. 

Schwartz's is famous for smoked meat, Montreal's version of pastrami. 

These people are serious about meat. Service is a lot friendlier than at Katz's though on par with Langer's in LA, my favorite pastrami on rye anywhere. 

And the sandwich? Succulent. Small enough to fit in your mouth. Under CAD$10. Cash only, which cleaned out nearly all my Canadian dollars. And worth every cent. 

Epilogue: on my way home from Schwartz's a poster caught my eye. It was the history of garment workers 100 years ago. The Yiddish word shmata  (rags) made me think of Aunt Ruthie, my grandfather's sister who used to shop in Hallandale on "shmata row."

As I stepped back to get a better shot, I lost my balance and tumbled backward, knocking over a store sign. A man came to check on me and then a woman who saw my puffy pink coat from up the block. Fortunately I wasn't even scratched. Didn't break my wrist or the sign I landed on or my iPhone. Moral: sometimes it pays to have a little extra padding. 

Training starts Monday.