restaurants

Forget the hype. Forget the Instagram bullshit. We’re talking about survival here, the kind of sustenance that gets you through another Montreal winter, another existential crisis. We’re talking smoked meat so good it almost makes you believe in a higher power. We’re talking about those places tucked away, down side streets, where the old-timers still hold court, the kind of spots that haven’t been “discovered” yet, and God help them when they are.

Italian in Little Italy? Moccione’s got the goods. Contemporary, but with a gravity, a respect for the ingredients that feels almost…religious. They’re not just throwing shit on a plate, they’re building something. Jewish heritage? You gotta hit up the delis. Pastrami on rye, piled high, a monument to survival. It’s more than just lunch, it’s a goddamn history lesson between two slices of bread. Vietnamese? Forget the pho joints on Saint-Laurent. Head to Ho Guom. The pho’s good, sure, but it’s the *rest* of the menu that sings. Northern Vietnamese, they say. Just trust me on this one. Haitian heat? You’ll find it. Look for the music, the smell of scotch bonnets in the air. Follow your nose.

Don’t be a tourist. Get lost. Wander the streets, let your gut be your guide. Rosemont’s got Hélicoptère, doing that farm-to-table thing, but doing it *right*. Villeray? Mastard. Local, seasonal, they give a damn about the earth and what you put in your body. Little Burgundy’s changing, gentrifying, but still got some grit, some soul. Find it.

Don’t get hung up on the price tag. Le Super Qualité ain’t gonna break the bank, and it’ll blow your goddamn mind with South Indian street food. Casavant’s got that brasserie vibe, you’ll feel like a goddamn Parisian. Good for a date, good for a solo drink, good for pretending you’re someone you’re not.