montreal bars

CultureFood & Drunk

We all know Québecers love Florida. But do Miami and Montréal in particular have any kind of bond? A week ago, I would have said no.

But sometimes it pays to rent a car and follow your stomach. The first stop on my namesake quest took me to Schwartz of Miami, a surprising discovery which I discussed last week.

Here’s the rest of the rundown.

Copacabana

IMG_3430

How odd. Here I am in Spring Break Central, a town where 70% of the local population is Spanish-speaking, and a local Google search for Copacabana yields nothing. Meanwhile, I am reminded of the near-legendary status of Montréal’s booty-shaking venue de Maisonneuve Blvd.

I persist. And with some effort, I uncover Boteco Copacabana, a newish Brazilian resto with mixed reviews online. I track it down on foot, landing smack in the middle of Miami Beach’s less-glamorous, tourist-trappy pedestrian street, Espanola Way.

I approach with caution. Visions of our own flamboyant, booming Copa quickly recede as I spot a lonely man played guitar in a front window—Boteco Copacabana’s sole indoor patron.

Sad guitar playing manAnd while the streetside has customers, the food looks sad and the prices outrageous. As much as I’d love to waste $30 of my hard-earned dollars for a lousy plate of chicken, I need to save up for the journey.

Grumpys

Montréal’s Grumpys is a cozy and cavernous joint whose vibe—intentional irony?—is so good-natured that I always stay too long. There’s no Grumpys in Miami, but there is a long-lost-brother: Gramps.

IMG_3529Crusty on the exterior while remaining honest, loveable and addictively fun inside, Gramps is a last remnant of grunge in Miami’s quickly-gentrifying Design District. The city’s de facto dive bar radiates screeching guitars, is housed in a crumbling warehouse, and is even guarded by ZZ Top’s eldest grandson.

Casa del Popolo

It seems like a safe bet: generic Spanish name and all. So imagine my joy when, after a hot thirty minutes on South 22nd Street, I spot Casa Felipe. My joy turnes to disappointment when (instead of a café I could compare with our own) I realize I am approaching a cigar emporium. But then I turn the corner and suddenly, it was all worth it. Thanks, Obama.

Obama smokes a stogie in Miami

Le Cheese Truck

Just outside Gramps, I stumbled upon a southern sibling of Le Cheese Truck. I almost did a double-take! It was called Ms. Cheezious.

IMG_3521Even the down-to-earth dudes who ran it mirror the sweet, bubbly proprietors of Le Cheese. They are super nice and obviously have a loyal following. Sandwiches such as grilled blue and bacon, apple-pulled pork, all sounded tantalizing—if a bit unoriginal to me. Sadly, they are not up to par with our own boys’ endeavour. My “Shaved tavern ham” with spiced apple and sharp cheddar with tomato on sourdough was sloppily satisfying—great for après-bar. But frankly, I was struggling to see why anyone would pay $10 for that when the same price would yield something much more flavourful and original chez Le Truck (such as the chili with cheese curds or their fabulous mac n cheese).

Varadero

In rush-hour-induced moment of contemplation on our two towns, I was struck with the fact that throngs of Montréalers escape to Varadero on a whim while Miamians—whose roots extend far deeper into the country than, uh, Sunwing—have no such luck themselves.

To make up for it, they have places like Varadero II, a run-of-the-mill Cuban bakery somewhere near nowheresville, (I later learn it’s called Tamiami).

IMG_3252

Handing my fate over to the lady behind Varadero‘s counter, I am summarily presented with a pastellito de guyaba. What a revelation. The flaky, unsweetened exterior gives way to muted, silky cheese. All fine and good. But then: the sweetish aftertaste of that mild queso suddenly bleeds—miraculously—into a gooey, ultra-sweet guava jam. Insane! At 75 cents, my blood sugar will be thankful that I won’t be able to find this in Montréal.

But I include this anecdote only to conclude that, subtle bonds aside, Montréal needs more Cuban food. While my stop at this and this Cuban cafeteria were both exceptional, it was that tiny bakery on SW 8th Street that truly tipped the scales.

More Cuban flavours on our frigid streets can only make this a warmer, happier, healthier place.

 

Imadake pub japonais
CultureFood & Drunk

rusbankinfo.ruWhen I say “sake,” you say ___ ? If you cannot fill in the blank, turn off your computer. Run straight to your local Japanese pub.

Nothing nearby? Try Imadake.

This neighbourhood watering hole (if you consider Place Alexis-Nihon a neighbourhood) has been around for three years. But you’ve been so blinded by Kazu and Big in Japan that I bet you’ve been missing out.

That’s a shame. Because you have no idea how much a wee tray of oily mackerel and a Sapporo-drowned sake can brighten a winter’s day.

Imadake may already be well-rooted in Montréal—albeit on a bleak stretch of Ste-Catherine West—but I still think too many izakaya fans are missing out on the culinary form in its most rowdy and flamboyant.

The longstanding Japanese concept of the small-plates-drinkery (annoyingly called “Japanese tapas” by some here in the West) is still a bit of a novelty to us in Canada.

But, you might protest, Kazu is like a household name by now!

I don’t disagree. But although the latter brings izakaya plates to life, Imadake brings life to the party.

Imadake pub in mtl

A warning: Imadake’s long wooden tables are built to order…for sake-bombing. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ll find out within about five minutes of sitting down. If you’re already getting anxious, you needn’t worry—the worst that could happen via proximity is a beer-stained blouse.

The biggest groups, it would seem, rev up in intensity as the night wears on. A horseshoe of two-seaters keeps couples at bay—though well within auditory range. Imadake is not a forum for intimate chatter. It might be argued, however, that neither is izakaya.

But you deserve to cut loose once in awhile.

At worst, you’ll learn a new tradition and get to bask in the sprawling, epic feat of graphic design that is the Imadake menu.

Once seated, however, you never know what could happen. You might just stumble upon some adventurous cocktail offerings and crisp variations on Sapporo and Kirin Ichibn. Try especially the Tokyotini (gin, ginger syrup & sake) or cassis-tinged rice lager.

While the night is still young (and your tastebuds pure), it’s a good time to sip a few varieties of sake (again, groups work well for this). You won’t find more varieties on offer in town (more than two pages worth!), so make the best of it.

Personally, however, I was there to dig in. So I’ll give you some suggestions:

Mackerel sashimi
Mackerel sashimi, fired for a few seconds at the table.

Torched at your tableside (see photo), the mackerel sashimi is simple, gorgeous: a steal at $6.50. Naked but for a squeeze of lemon, I could very easily have downed these fishy slivers all night.

Sake bombs go better with sampling, however, so be sure to venture further. In complete opposition to our expectations, we found the dumplings bland and texturally nondescript, yet the “burdock french fries” a surprising delight. Wasabi-octopus dashi is tempting but hit-or-miss, but it will help you sober up for a stretch.

If, at this point in the evening, you find yourself ravenous from so much table-banging (the one and only way to dunk sake into beer), do this: get the Surprise Dome.

Do not be alarmed when, the server at your side, your tongue is suddenly coated with doubt. Persist. Because the worst part is over once you’ve said it aloud (“one surprise dome, please”).

That said, you will need a little bit more persistence when it arrives. First, excise the wafer-like globe. Then, dismantle the (tastier than expected) shell. You will be enchanted by something akin to a forest floor: greens, avocado, scallion, crunchy tofu and chunks of tuna as pink and juicy as grapefruit sections.

Now that I’ve ruined that surprise for you, here’s another spoiler: Imadake’s best bite might just be a tiny blob of tendon.

Fatty, tender and ever-so-slightly gamey, this beef is served with a mound of turnip slaw—a brilliant, delicate garnish that, as you gnaw, sinks with steady grace into the heady ponzu broth.

It might be a pub, but you should still give dessert a try. You’ll be doubtful of your ability to stomach a cartoonishly-depicted creamy/crunchy/chewy/slimey experiment after who knows how many beers, but you’ve come this far: don’t back down now.

In fact, the Imadake experience might be summarized with a mouthful of the sweet-soybean-ice-cream-mochi bowl: slightly wacky, slightly awesome, but totally worth the adventure.