montreal journal - day 3

Another late morning, another great breakfast. P desperately wanted to relive the modernism of the old world's fair site, so we took the metro to Parc Jean Drapeau on the Ile Ste. Hélène. As we rode out, we watched as person after person departed at previous stations until, by the time we arrived, there were only a few souls left. Walking in Parc Jean Drapeau was like stepping into a ghost town of the former world's fair. The park was nearly deserted and every building looked as if it had been unoccupied since '67. Granted, this island is still home to a modern-day Six Flags and tourist season had only ended a month prior, but we were completely on our own.

We took in the sites that remain of the fair: a giant Calder sculpture that frames a view across the St. Lawerence River of old town Montréal and Bucky's geodesic dome, which is now home to an environmental museum. Seemingly alone, we wandered through the park and happened on (it wasn't difficult to miss) a fenced field where every schoolchild from the greater Montreal area was being held prisoner - er, playing. Playing and screaming. Mostly screaming. In French.

We made our way back to the city and to a former iron foundry that now houses galleries and a lunchtime hot spot called Cluny Artbar. A very raw industrial space with a comfortably bustling vibe, pictures of their pug mascot grace the walls and all of their tables are made from reclaimed bowling lanes. We ate a simple panini with Italian meats and fresh mozzarella and a heaping plate of roasted vegetable antipasti. The real standout, though, was a cream of chicken soup with chipotle chilies. It was like 1950s comfort food but with a smoky, spicy bite and incredibly fresh flavor.

Afterwards, we cut across the financial downtown to do a quick tour of Old Town. It was very pretty, but more in a living-working-city way than the picture-book charm of some European cities. We found Notre Dame cathedral, which was a very New World, if a little overdone, homage to Ste. Chapelle in Paris. Unfortunately, we missed the laser light show. We went down to the waterfront and sauntered (jauntily) through a decidedly shuttered-up Old Port. From what we can tell, Montreal has two seasons (according to the tourist bureau) - Summer and Winter. In Summer, you can rent paddle boats on the canals and enjoy "crème glace" while walking down quaint Euro-inspired streets. In Winter, you can ice skate on those same canals and, one can only presume, buy warm cider and spiced nuts on those same quaint lanes. In Fall, you can look upon the boarded up windows of summer tourist shacks and read the advertisements for the winter amusements yet to come. This was probably for the best because both Summer and Winter attractions seem to consist of a lot of overpriced bottles of maple syrup and plush mounties. Still, a quiet walk among abandoned canals and vacant historic streets was pretty nice.

Walking back through Chinatown, we stopped at Camellia Sinensis in the college-y Latin Quarter. Just like our with coffee experiences, coming from Portland we were spoiled in our expectations. To their credit, they did have a nice tea menu (we had a mellow wulong and a very fine 1995 Pu-erh), but Asian-tradition tea parlors tend to make us tense. Too quiet. Too many good vibes. Too many bodhi seed bracelets. Maybe we really are just high tea sort of people - the Brits got it right with the scones and sandwiches and cream and crumpets. Asian tea is just too austere. With that in mind, we decided to go about as far on the opposite side of the spectrum from austere as we could.

Au Pied de Cochon. This restaurant was the reason we first became interested in Montreal. Years ago, P had seen an episode of an Anthony Bourdain food show set in Quebec and Martin Picard's Montreal restaurant. The moment that stood out in P's memory? Chef Picard telling his staff to "kill" Bourdain by serving him every dish on the menu. Now remember, we said we felt too austere - Picard's dishes are Quebecois comfort food (not light too begin with) of the most decadent variety. And so platters of foie gras-stuffed pig's feet, boudin noir, entire guinea hens, duck pot au feu, and maple candied pig's heads came right off the line and onto Bourdain's plate. P was transfixed.

If we lived here, we both agreed we would have to designate a "PDC" budget. This is the sort of place you could eat at every night of the week (if your arteries could withstand the onslaught). The space was a warm and inviting room with a long bar, lots of rustic wood finishes, a huge brick oven, and a cold display case packed with lobes of foie gras. Others have aptly described the interior as resembling a sugar shack cabin - just one that is overflowing with crowds of people who all seemed to know one another. The staff were all incredibly attentive and accommodating, but the menu itself is what is truly sublime.

We began our meal with two well-advised cromesquises du foie gras - easily the stand-out of the evening. With the appearance of small croûtons, they were actually cubes of breaded, deep-fried, liquefied foie gras. Toss one in your mouth, close your lips and it is the damn most rarefied popper experience of your life. We followed it up with a salad of local blue cheese, walnuts, apples and endive, imagining it to be a bright counterpoint to the meat-heavy rest of our meal. Not here. The mountainous salad was the size of A's head and was really just a pile of some amazing cheese and nuts doused in rich dressing. More salads should take a cue from Au Pied. When our mains came, we were already stuffed, but we are professionals, so we didn't let it phase us. P had the potee du PDC, a cast iron pot filled blood sausage, French-style saucisson, pork, mushrooms, onions, and cheese-curd laced mashed potatoes. You know, for balance. The deep sweetness of the boudin and the rich pork fat were cut by a bright vinegary note in the broth that laced the pork roasts. And the fact that you could get a bite of garlicky, cheese-y potatoes with each forkful made it all the better.

A went the dainty route and ordered a pizza. Pizza with a full slab of foie gras on each slice. Saying no to the exclusivity of certain ingredients, Picard easily has over a dozen preparations involving foie gras, and the helping is always generous. Picard has rejected the pretenses of so many new restaurants and opened a place where people can just revel in the full sensuality of simple food. But to fully understand this, you need to think about "simple" the way this man does. When you get over the cost, foie gras is about as simple as you can get - it just tastes good, all on its own. "So", Picard thinks, "why not capitalize on that and use it as liberally as you would butter?" And that is exactly what he does. The foie stands in for the more traditional anchovy on Italian-style pies, and all of the other ingredients are orchestrated around it to play off of its richness. Figs provide the honeyed sweetness, arugula offers a bitter edge, goat cheese adds a nice tang and paper thin prosciutto serves as a basil chiffonade garnish.

Not wanting to miss out on a single aspect of Au Pied, we didn't shy away from dessert, even though our digestive tracts were ready to resign. We chose the tarte d'érable (pour deux!), whose humble appearance belied its decadence. Its flavor and consistency struck all of the notes of a classic pecan pie filling (sans the nuts) - buttery and custardy, but heightened by that unique maple sweetness. Paired with a glass of barely-frozen ice cream, it really was luxurious. A is quite the crust aficionado and she could have sworn theirs had a generous helping of leaf lard, but we looked into our PDC cookbook later (yeah, we bought a souvenir from dinner) and found only butter. That is some masterful crust. We paired the dessert with a 1994 French ice wine (their one and only dessert wine) because that's just the way we roll. We aren't sure what more we can say about Au Pied de Cochon than that we had superlatively high expectations going in and they were completely warranted in every respect.

montreal journal - day 2

We woke on our second morning in Montreal just as late as we had the day before. When we had told Louise that we'd take breakfast around 9:30 our first morning, we thought of it as a one-time occurrence to allow ourselves to recover from jetlag. For two people who typically wake before their alarms on weekends, we actually rested on this trip (that's probably the point) and fell into the habit of taking the latest breakfasts of almost all of the b & b guests. We were only outdone by a woman who arrived from Toronto late in our stay and may still be sleeping for all we know.

At breakfast (light crepe-like pancakes with fresh berry sauce), Louise offered us a few suggestions for the day. She had good things to say about the Marche Jean Talon (the largest of the markets in town) and let us know that Wednesday nights were free at Montreal's Contemporary Art Museum. For those of you out there who aren't really interested in reading all of these long posts, aren't you glad we just gave you an elevator speech version of our day? If you truly love us and think we're pretty damn funny, read on.

We caught the Metro up to the market from the Mont Royal stop, which is very nearly the bleakest station in town (that dubious distinction is reserved for the gulag that is Cote-des-Neiges). Jean Talon is out on the Northern end of little Italy where a larger ethnic population is evident in all of the international restaurants and African internet cafes. After coming from the abundance of artisan produce of the Portland Farmer's Market, the outdoor farmers' stands didn't captivate us. The real draw here was a small spice importer run by the deVienne family named Olives et Epices. This shop was a veritable wonderland of seasonings and we spent a good hour staring in rapt admiration at the array. After having devoted over 15 minutes to discussing whether we should get the Madascar or the Tahitian vanilla bean, we knew it was time for us to make our purchases and move on with our day. We selected some gifts and decided on a box of Thai and Indonesian spices for ourselves (oh - and we went with the Organic Madagascar vanilla bean).

Post-market we were feeling a bit peckish, but of course any old restaurant would not do. We headed out into the surrounding neighborhood in search of an Armenian bakery. [Perhaps it is worth mentioning here that we weren't as savvy as we seemed when it came to finding local favorites. We had the amazing assistance of ...an endless banquet, a great food blog written by two Montrealers. Without their guide, we wouldn't have eaten nearly so much. It was like having a friend with great taste offer you all of their recommendations.] On the way to the bakery, we came upon this sign, which caused A to sing "faites la pause, faites la pause, faite a faite a faite a that kit kat bar" for the rest of the day. This caused P to declare, "Faites la pause from that song." Ah, love. Turns out, Armenian pizza is fantastic. From Chez Apo, got take out lamajoun (a flatbread covered in spices, spinach and cheese), sesame-studded falafel and tzatziki. This photo from lunch pretty much captures A's trip experience.

Strolling back through Petite Italie, we stopped into a Montreal institution - Quincaillerie Dante. This is one of those places that we keep telling people about when we try to describe Montreal. It is a cooking supply store in an Italian neighborhood with a difficult to pronounce French name ("hardware store") and a large stock of guns. That's right, it's a hunting/cooking shop where old women bickered in three languages over stockpots as businessmen on their lunch breaks stared down the sights of rifles.

After the superlatively good bagels from breakfast the day before, we knew we'd have to get some from the source. We'd heard good things about both St. Viateur and Fairmount bagels, but as Fairmount proved much harder to find, we chose to go there. We got one black (poppy) and one white (sesame) and wished we'd gotten a bag. Taking them back to our room, we tore into them immediately and found the crust to have a great snap to it and their interiors to be chewy like a soft pretzel. Seriously good bagels. We'll have to do a little comparison with stateside ones.

Once we felt revived, we ventured out to the Montreal Museum of Contemporary Art to horn in on the free admission night. They were showing a great exhibit by Brazilian photographer Vik Muniz, who recreates photos and famous paintings in a variety of "unique" mediums (coiled string, dust, spaghetti sauce, trash, colored plastic toys, chocolate syrup, Pantone color chips). Apart from how great it was to see Warhol's Jackie series in ketchup, the most striking of his pieces was a series of graphite sketches of famous TimeLife photos he drew from memory then photographed in soft focus. Among them were images that are familiar to American society - the flag raising over Iwo Jima, the Vietnamese girl burned by napalm, John Lennon in New York. But all of Muniz's renderings were slightly off from their reality, revealing that our memory of these images was comprised of their emotional impact much more than their visual intricacies. But seriously, chocolate sauce Jackson Pollock. Seriously.

Returning to Little Italy for dinner, we stopped in at Bottega, a chic looking Italian place with a powerhouse of a Neapolitan wood-fired oven that cooks a pizza in 90 seconds. We devoured their housemade sausage with a lightly dressed broccoli rabe, followed up with a simple mozarella, tomato and anchovy pizza and topped off our meal with a slightly exotic chocolate and pear tart (it had a starfruit garnish). All in all, the place reminded us so strongly of trattorias we had visited in Italy, from the simple, fresh presentations to the pleasantly boisterous atmosphere.

Despite our illnesses, we still had it in us to stop by a local bar for a drink. In an old bathhouse, Bily Kun (Czech for "white horse") had white tiled floors and mounted ostrich heads graced the walls. It was the kind of place that made you feel cooler for being there. We had two great local beers, which, by the way, Montreal has a lot of. Neither of us gravitate towards fruity beers, but the St. Ambroise apricot wheat beer was one-of-a-kind. The Cheval Blanc (French for "white horse" - coincidence? no.) blanche was like an adult Corona - malty, crisp and served with a lime - and a terrible choice for cold Montreal weather.

we're just here for the food

You all thought we were kidding, didn't you? You'd ask, "Montreal for your honeymoon? Have you been before? What's the draw?" And we'd blithely respond, "For the food." You probably laughed and thought to yourself that you would have chosen Hawaii this time of year.

Did you attend the same wedding we did? Between the banquet spread (thank you, Simpatica) and the toasts that focused on Amanda's appetite, it was kind of hard to mistake the true purpose of our big day: the food, we mean, our undying love for one another. So if it wasn't already clear, we love food and we love each other. And we celebrated both on our honeymoon (follow along and see if you can figure out which love outweighed the other)...

TA DA! DAY ONE (with parts of the first night)!

After a poorly thought-out and incredibly long trip on which we left at midnight Sunday, went through two Northeast cities, and hopped a bus to Montreal, we got into the city late Monday evening. As we often do in unfamiliar places, we arrived at a time of day when everything appears large and scary, and every person we pass seems to be speaking in a foreign language. Oh wait, that was French. We happily found our b & b, made a run to a drugstore for cold medicine and tissues and decided to begin our Quebecois dining experience properly. With poutine.

La Banquise 24h was luckily only a few blocks from our place, so we headed over to this all-hours hipster casse-croute (fast food joint). It had the vibe of a late-night college hang-out, like a college-town burrito joint, only this place had a menu of 22 poutines (and a couple dozen ways of cooking hot dogs that we can't remember). A went for the classic, literally, the poutine classique - fries, brown gravy, snowy white cheese curds. P felt like a little fusion and went for the poutine kamikaze, which delivered a wallop of merguez sausage, pickled hot peppers and tabasco sauce on top of the basic poutine. That is the beauty of poutine - no matter how many toppings you add, you don't subtract the basics.

In the light of the morning (which was beautifully clear to all of you "go to the tropics" naysayers), we awoke to a spread of coffee, juice, fruit, scrambled eggs, yogurt, and our first taste of Montreal bagels. Unlike in New York, where bagels are boiled, the bagels here are dipped in honey water then baked in a wood oven. The result is a crisp sweet exterior with a pleasantly chewy interior. We knew we'd have to get more on this trip. Our b & b, Le Plumard, had comfortably modern furnishings, cute style and a Portugese host with a broken arm and a penchant for making bad jokes about her cast. Louise was a warm and gracious host and her breakfasts each morning were such a great respite from traveling and eating out every meal.

We set out after breakfast to get a sense of the neighborhood our b & b was in. The Plateau is a vibrant mix of brownstone apartments and neighborhood restos (not an obnoxious abbreviation, just what they say in Quebec) that runs along Ave. Mont Royal and Boul. Sant Laurent (the Main). The Main used to be the dividing line between French and English Quebec (and by used to, we mean "early 90s"), but has recently been repopulated by families and hipsters moving back into the city. We kept saying that parts of it looked like New York while other parts looked like London. Some guidebook we saw described it as "Williamsburg in a beret," but like all of Montreal, it was actually unique to itself.

After getting the lay of the land, we dropped into Montreal's most famous Jewish deli for lunch. What distinguishes Schwartz's is their smoked meat. No, its not pastrami. No, its not corned beef. We probably would have called it both, but they were very particular about their product. Schwartz's is just that kind of democratic lunch counter you find in New York, where locals and tourists alike put up with gruff treatment for the outstanding food. A got the "stuffed chicken" sandwich - the biggest stack of cold bologna between two mustard slathered pieces of white bread she had ever seen. P went for the house special, which you don't order by size, but by fat. P got the full fat. We both ordered half-sours and black cherry sodas to go with our sandwiches and because we hadn't had poutine in almost a day, we rounded it out with fries.

What to do after a meal like that? We waddled back to our b & b for a nice little nap. Now, mind you, A had gotten horribly sick the day after our wedding (who among you was sick? fess up, because you aren't coming next time...) and P was only a day away from following suit. This was but the start of a full week of dozing off around 9:30 or 10 and not rousing from bed until 9 the next day (including daily 4 o'clock naps).

Because A was still a bit drowsy, even after her hour-long nap, P dragged her up to Mile End to an Italian cafe Louise had recommended. Club Social was in the heart of a predominantly English neighborhood, served an Italian clientele and was filled with markings of the dominant French presence. If we thought we were having trouble with French, now we had a room full of people speaking three languages we had experience with. Now Montreal is many good things, but a town of excellent coffee and tea it is not. We were yearning for those Portland-style small batch roasts we so loved, but at least an Italian place like Club Social made a decent espresso.

Well, after brunch, lunch, and coffee, it seemed high time for dinner (trust us, you'll begin to notice a trend here). Exhausted after a long day of struggling through French, we went the take-out route from Chuch, the casual cafe side of Chu Chai, a vegetarian Thai restaurant in our neighborhood. Neither of us had ever seen such a panoply of fake meats as Chuch offered and the verisimilitude of those little TVP duck breasts was uncanny (right down to the fake layer of fat). They didn't taste like duck, but that was probably fine, since this was one of the rare meals we managed to avoid meat on this trip. Seitan a l'orange, ginger green beans, curried eggplant, udon and tofu - you'll just have to imagine how good it all was because we forgot to take pictures of this one meal. Since there is nothing classier than Thai takeout when you're jet-lagged, we popped a bottle of champagne and enjoyed some truffles that A's parents had arranged to have waiting for us. And, seeing as it was around 9:30 (6:30 Pacific?!), we promptly fell asleep.

(PS. Hopefully you've noticed the changes around the site, but if you haven't yet seen, there is a link on the left to our flickr page. Follow the link to view the full set of images from our trip. We'll keep posting on the rest of our honeymoon and as soon as we get our pictures from the wedding back from our photographer, we'll post those as well. Thanks again for sharing our wedding with us and making it such a memorable event. -P&A)

p & a pdx map

For a fuller view of the map, with recommendations, addresses, links and pictures, click the "Enlarge Map" button (the two overlapping squares) in the upper left corner or you can simply click on any of the place markers dotting the map.

B-Dogg is in 'da house!

So, I was about to update my post about the save-the-date robot pictures when I realized that all y'all are probably looking at the first post and nothing else at this point. In order to make sure that you see this great work of art, I thought I would put it right at the top. Where your eyes will be drawn to it. Without fail.

For this picture, Mr. Brandon March Peden receives a very simple, and yet perfectly fitting, title. "Master B-dogg." That is all.

bring an umbrella.

So while Amanda and I have just surfaced for air after seeing 18 performances in one week, she has gone off on a three day work retreat in the wildness. That leaves me to fret about things far beyond my control. Like the weather.

Months ago, October 6th seemed like an arbitrary choice. We both enjoy the fall and wanted to have an autumn wedding. It couldn't conflict with TBA or run up too close to shows at my gallery. Other than that, we both are fond of October and felt that early in the month offered the best chance for nice weather. And that was the last it crossed our minds.

An evening wedding in the fall? Sure, that makes a lot of sense. Revisiting the rooftop terrace for the first time the other evening, we both said the same thing. "Damn, it's windy up here." Suddenly, our summer-weight attire that we bough back in April seems woefully light for the bracing chill of an autumn night. At least we'll be in front of the fireplace. It is all of you poor saps that will be huddled together for warmth. Maybe this way it will seem like the crowded seating arrangement was intentional.

But the other factor that we had failed to consider was light. Thanks to a little phenomenon called axial tilt, the sun doesn't always set at the same time year round. Most people know this, but for some reason, we chose to schedule our ceremony for 6:30. Thankfully, when I looked into it for the first time last night, I found out that sunset on the 6th shouldn't occur until around 6:41. And get this, we'll have "civilian twilight" for another 18 minutes or so! We don't even need candles because the sun will do the mood-lighting for us.

According to the National Weather Service, we have a 35.6% historic chance of rain and, thankfully, a 0% chance of snow. The average precipitation for October 6 is .10", while the most we ever got was 1.24" in 1981. The hottest it's been was a balmy 89 in 1952, but it was once only 37 degrees in 1974. Luckily, the temperature averages 47-68 degrees. I'd say that's pretty comfortable. But should it matter that back in 1962, the weekend of our wedding brought in one of the worst tsunamis to ever strike the Pacific Northwest?

I've become a weather fanatic - checking and cross-referencing multiple sources to find the report that I want to believe. However, all of the meteorologists will tell you that beyond a few days in advance, forecasting is little more than guesswork. This just means that I'll have to start putting more stock in predictions the closer it gets. In the meantime, I was considering getting a subscription to a Farmer's Almanac to access their "80% accurate" long-range forecasts, but when I went to one of their websites, they predicted the 4th-7th as being "very unsettled" and their front page advertised a "Worst Wedding Weather Contest." Maybe I should just invest in a pig spleen. And you should invest in some blankets and ponchos.

At least I haven't begun worrying about the weather for our honeymoon. Why did I insist on Montreal over Hawaii?

radio silence.

For the next two weeks, things may be a little quiet around here. Don't worry, we're still around and still thinking about the wedding (somewhere in the back of our minds). It is just that early-September brings a cavalcade of arts and performance to the city in a two-week binge of double-booked evenings, frantic racing between venues and a lot of late nights with artsy Portlanders wired on caffeine and contemporary art. Between the 6th and the 16th, the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art hosts the Time-Based Art Festival (TBA), a convergence of dance, theatre, music, visual arts, and some truly bizarre experiences that lurk on the fringes of all of them. During the second weekend of TBA (the 14th-16th - like I said, double-booking), my gallery will be participating in the AFFAIR at the Jupiter Hotel, which lets a few dozen galleries loose on the rooms of a 60s motor lodge-cum-hipster mecca. And in between installing works in the hotel room and staffing the fair, we'll still be sneaking in to the last of the TBA performances.

Throughout all of this, if you happen to miss my lovely writing, I'll be blogging the TBA festival over at the PICA blog. So if you are one of those people for whom contemporary arts criticism is interchangeable with rants about our wedding, have a read.

Why, you ask, would anyone dedicate two straight weeks to a hectic schedule of festival attendance in the month before their wedding?
Because we are gluttons for punishment.
And for performance art.

And the two often go hand in hand.