There is no part of Montreal that is not improved by snow. It looks quaint, almost fake, in the Old Port; downtown, it smooths the ugliness of buildings built too recently; north of the Plateau, it makes the littered walk-ups, the graffiti’d bridge, the afterparty-ready warehouses seem more scenic than scene-y for once. I will never forget when on a night that seemed like Halloween and New Year’s combined, but was really just Thursday, I ended up in a stranger’s house, accidentally (not lying) did (redacted) and escaped at nine a.m., coatless, to find that it was snowing. In October. I am still not convinced that Montreal isn’t actually Narnia.
Not long ago, when it was snowing more seasonably, I flew Air Canada to Montreal for something of a romantic weekend with the man. He had not been there in five years. I had been there every few months since, oh, 2008. For both of us it had to be a rediscovery, but also a justification: why would anyone leave Toronto in December, where it is tolerably shitty, for Montreal in December, where if the wind blows the wrong way you might completely lose your will to live?
Because in the winter, Toronto feels cold even indoors, as though we are all together holding our breaths, just waiting for this to be over; whereas December in Montreal is a celebration of winter, a place bursting with warmth out of all the doorways, doorways that lead to homes and to establishments in which the whole purpose is to kiss and make up for the cold. This is what makes it, also, a place where you can say you’re spending “a romantic weekend” and pretty much keep a straight face.
We flew Air Canada from the island airport and stayed at the Sofitel Golden Mile, which is vast and first-classy and centrally located (meaning, there’s almost nowhere nearby you want to hang out). It’s not cheap—around $200 a night for the least big room. We stayed here because it was part of the deal with Tourisme Montreal, who, I should tell you, paid for the trip. Had I been there myself, I would have slept on a couch in a crumbling Jeanne-Mance manse. Together, I think we’d have settled in the Old Port, and if you go with someone you like, you should do the same. Reason being: the Old Port is not cool; it is touristic; it is also lovelovelovely and really does, hype aside, feel a little like Europe. There’s hardly any point going on whole weekenders with your s.o. just to stay in another city’s version of your neighbourhood.
And the Old Port has the best hotels per capita in Canada (I made that up, but it’s true). From high to low, suggestions: the swissshhh and incredible Hotel St. James (hotellestjames.com; 355 Saint-Jacques), which is housed in a former bank and makes it so so hard to resist a 1% joke (from $295/night); Hotel Gault (hotelgault.com; 449 Saint-Helene), a loosely modernist 30-room establishment with perks like heated concrete floors (yesss) and iPads on request (from $239/night); Le Petit Hotel (petithotelmontreal.com; 168 Rue Saint Paul O.), a no-frillsy semi-hip spot where you order rooms by the size, easy as Starbucks (from $159/night). For even less—say, $100/night—you can rent someone’s loft on AirBnB, but beware paroxyms-cum-full-blown-seizures of envy when you see that it’s thrice bigger and so much more “authentic” than your stupid Toronto condo.
After you’ve checked in, ordered room service and done whatever you need to do to relaxxx (oh I said relaxxxxxx), put on seven coats each and venture gently into the cobblestoned maze. For your Friday night dinner, I can’t recommend better than Le Bremner (361 Rue Saint Paul E.), although maybe that’s because a) I don’t know shit and b) I don’t eat meat-meat, which rules out Joe Beef, etc. Le Bremner opened this year and is ruled by Chuck Hughes (of Garde Manger and Iron Chef America fame), who wanted to do sublime and crazy things with seafood and has succeeded. The menu comprises a lot of rusticky shellfish and fish-fish layered with French and East Asian flavours (huge, garlic-encrusted oysters; kimchi snowcrab on fried rice cake; lobster parfait) and sided with local-as-possible veg. You can get steak, too, done Philly-style. It’ll all cost $200 for two if you drink well—worth it. Also, it’s brimming with atmosphere, being essentially a furnace-heated 30-seat cave marked by a sign saying “restaurant” (proper names are so bougie) at street level. If afterward you want a cocktail, try Philemon (111 Rue Saint Paul O.), also housed in an ex-bank and purportedly the most local of haunts on the block; so basically, it’s The Beacs? There’s also Velvet (velvetspeakeasy.ca; 426 Rue Saint Gabriel), a candlelit, labyrinthian club that’s worth seeing if only because it’s literally underground; figuratively, not so much. On Friday nights, Montreal stalwarts like Shaydakiss spin. For a more realistic drink, you have to head way north on Saint Laurent, the main drag that goes from Richmond Street to Parkdale in a few thousand numbers. Or you could just go home and have Sortilge and sex. It’s COLD, remember?
Saturday is for shopping. If you like capital-F fashion and have some Christmas money still, go to three places and that’s it: SSENSE (90 Rue Saint Paul O.), the flossy IRL flagship of Canada’s best answer to Net-a-Porter; Reborn (231 Rue Saint Paul O.), which is all $2000 Edward Scizzorhands costumes and $500 concept watches and yeah; Denis Gagnon‘s very own boutique (170 Rue Saint Paul O.), opened earlier this summer. For fancy books from Assouline and the like, there’s Librissime (62 Rue Saint Paul O.). And save time for one of my favourite art galleries anywhere, DHC/ART (dhc-art.org; 451 Saint-Jean), which was recently home to exhibits by John Currin and Berlinde de Bruckyere (whoa). From January 19 to May 13, they’ll have a group show ft. Taryn Simon, Omer Fast, Teresa Margolles, Phillippe Parreno, and Jose Toirac. The theme is “disappearance” and you will wish you could live inside the walls, probably.
For a late lunch, go to Le Cartet (lecartet.com; 106 Rue McGill) when it’s quiet, around 3 p.m. (it closes at 4). It is a long place, full of light and clatter, and you can get a sort of ploughman’s brunch (eggs, various meats, potatoes, salad; or eggs, salad, ham croissant, salmon galette, cheese, figs; and so on) for $15. Add mimosa: $21. (If you want truly good coffee, however, get out of tourist-ville and go to Pikolo on Parc.)
Satiated, you should go to Bota Bota (botabota.ca), because how often will you be in the water and on the water at the same time? This spa—Nordic in concept, Euro in design—comprises hot tubs and cold tubs and saunas and steam rooms, all stacked neatly in a black box floating on the canal. For a day pass, pay $65 each and enjoy several dark, calm hours (it closes at 10 p.m.); you can also get various massages and holistic body treatments and facials, should you feel so deserving. (We didn’t, and I only managed two hours of chillaxation before I felt the urgent need to do something on my phone.)
On a Saturday night there will be Mile-Endless vinyl nights and loft parties from which to choose, so choose unwisely. For legal activities, Sparrow (5322 Boulevard Saint Laurent) is yupsterish and civilized, while Casa del Popolo (4873 Boulevard Saint Laurent) is unruly and classic, a place where indie rock still exists. Later, just follow the duct-tape arrows up the concrete stairs, and don’t think of leaving before 4 a.m. That’s when the party gets good, and by good I mean someone with ’70s tennis-star hair will yell “this is where culture happens! Right here! Right now!” over an obscure Polish disco beat in a half-full warehouse. Because you’re from Toronto, you will roll your eyes.
Sunday recovery breakfast is best at Beauty’s (beautys.ca; 93 Avenue de Mont Royal O.), the rare diner that deserves its “legendary” appellation. When it’s busy, the million-year-old owner still directs traffic, giving preference to long-faded glamour girls with acrylic nails and auburn wigs. How can you not?? Get the latkes with applesauce and sour cream ($6) or the classic eggs-and-bacon ($9) with a bagel (of course) and coffee. Do not ask for soy milk. With a little life in you and leftover bills, explore Mile End. For new clothes, go to Les Etoffes (lesetoffes.com; 5253 Saint Laurent); for old clothes, go to Citizen Vintage (citizenvintage.com; 5330 Saint Laurent); for old, beautifully restored designer glasses, try Les Montures (lesmontures.com; 174 Rue Bernard O.). And for a wunderkammer of flotsam and delight, stop at Monastiraki (5478 Saint Laurent) and stay a while. I bought a goth comic book, an old United Colors of Benetton catalogue, a child’s homemade birthday card, vintage liquor labels, and tarnished silver goblets in a purple velvet box—and that was in just 15 minutes. In Toronto, places like this would be “curated” or “edited” and marked up 180 per cent. In Montreal, they—well, they do their damned peculiar best to fuck comparisons.
Lastly: before you get out of the unmelting snow and the illimitable cold and into a slow, slow cab, stop at Fairmount Bagel (74 Rue Fairmount O.) and get a half-dozen fresh ones. In the line at the airport you can split them one by one with your lover.
Sarah Nicole Prickett is a Style Editor for Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter: @xoxSNP.
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