I'm having mixed feelings about Montreal these days.
It's springtime, and I've got itchy feet. I'm looking to stretch my wings.
I also received a notice from the landlord that our rent is increasing by $20/month starting in July. Fucking shit! That's like taking my landlord out to dinner every month. Not just a sandwich either. We're talking someplace nice. Of course, my roommates Dill and Pickle and I plan on refusing the rental increase, with the assistance of the Villeray Renters' Association. The Villeray Renters' Association (ALV) has got the backs of poor people, so a big shout out to them for fighting the good fight.
I've been to Jonas a few times. It's a diner. It's near my home. They serve breakfast and make burgers and they have large booths--what's not to love?
I ordered, for the first time, a Boréale Rousse on tap. A glass. It tasted divine. I then ordered a poutine. They only have one size. My food arrived promptly. I was the only customer seated in the restaurant.
The poutine was good for the first few minutes. The cheese curds were still firm. I went for the shorter, crispier fries. The gravy was slightly spiced, not too dark, nice. Then I reached the mid-way point, and that's when it started to feel like soggy, gravy soup. I mean, it's hard to complain about poutine being a soggy mess of gravy, melted cheese, and potato, 'cause, by definition, that's what it is. Poutine is meant to be poutiney. Or poutine-esque.
I'm not sure I really experienced the Montreal Moment of Truth I was looking for. There was a hockey game on the teevee, and the announcers were narrating the game in French. I was eating poutine. I was looking at an envelope that spelled bad news and constant struggle: the increased payment of rent. I don't think there's ever a poutine that will relieve me of the shame, horror, and humiliation of paying for housing, no matter how gooey and soupy and cheesy it may be.
It's springtime, and I've got itchy feet. I'm looking to stretch my wings.
I also received a notice from the landlord that our rent is increasing by $20/month starting in July. Fucking shit! That's like taking my landlord out to dinner every month. Not just a sandwich either. We're talking someplace nice. Of course, my roommates Dill and Pickle and I plan on refusing the rental increase, with the assistance of the Villeray Renters' Association. The Villeray Renters' Association (ALV) has got the backs of poor people, so a big shout out to them for fighting the good fight.
I'm clutching the piece of registered mail from our landlord when I run into Cay on St-Denis. "I'm having an existential crisis," I say. She's lighting a smoke. I hold up the envelope: "Bad news." She exhales. "Our rent is going up by $20 a month." "Ours too," she says. "By the same amount. We're gonna refuse." I explain that I need a poutine. Therapy poutine. Poutine to convince me not to move out of my dreamy homestead to greener, cheaper rent pastures.
We chat briefly about a video shoot that our mutual friend is coordinating for May Day, and then I'm off. I head straight to Jonas.
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| Photo: http://maudetoby.blogspot.ca |
I've been to Jonas a few times. It's a diner. It's near my home. They serve breakfast and make burgers and they have large booths--what's not to love?
I ordered, for the first time, a Boréale Rousse on tap. A glass. It tasted divine. I then ordered a poutine. They only have one size. My food arrived promptly. I was the only customer seated in the restaurant.
The poutine was good for the first few minutes. The cheese curds were still firm. I went for the shorter, crispier fries. The gravy was slightly spiced, not too dark, nice. Then I reached the mid-way point, and that's when it started to feel like soggy, gravy soup. I mean, it's hard to complain about poutine being a soggy mess of gravy, melted cheese, and potato, 'cause, by definition, that's what it is. Poutine is meant to be poutiney. Or poutine-esque.
I'm not sure I really experienced the Montreal Moment of Truth I was looking for. There was a hockey game on the teevee, and the announcers were narrating the game in French. I was eating poutine. I was looking at an envelope that spelled bad news and constant struggle: the increased payment of rent. I don't think there's ever a poutine that will relieve me of the shame, horror, and humiliation of paying for housing, no matter how gooey and soupy and cheesy it may be.
Therapy poutine fail.
