Saturday we had planned to say goodbye and move on around the coast, but Storm Dorian, a hurricane you’ll have heard of having laid waste to the Bahamas on it’s path up the east of the Americas, had other ideas. En route to brunch, the town’s inhabitants could be seen strapping down anything smaller than a hatchback, and a cursory eye over the news/forecast gave us concern. We chewed it over at Café de Couleurs, a beautifully multicoloured wooden building overlooking the green and blue patchwork wetland of the Barachois. There was a still a fair amount to get to further round the peninsular, but ultimately the thought of driving, and let alone camping, in that weather – bravado of two ultimate YES people aside – was unappealing and we decided to stick it out another night at the pub and in the caravan. Residents at said pub would later confirm the wisdom of this decision, citing possible 90 mph winds, and no small amount of nerves themselves even as hardened country-folk. Brunch, by the way, was top notch; beginning with the storm-antidote soup of the day, piping hot and filled with much needed vegetables, a smoothie filled with much needed fruits, and finally a shrimp and scallop waffle! Heated argument (is it an argument if everyone is on the same side but shouting?) debates to what extend something can be called breakfast if one simply cracks an egg on top... In my book goat curry, boeuf bourguignonne and pad Thai are all affirmatives.

Gambling that there may still be a ship’s captain brave enough to make the hop over with us to the Ile Bonaventure, we head back into town. By now my road awareness is up to scratch and I’m fully appreciating the sweeping bends, undulations and dense foliage to either side. The ‘incontournable’ or ‘must see’ island is home to one of the largest colonies of gannets in the world, endorsed thusly by Laurence “It stinks and they’ll poo on you for sure”... AND we have to get there by another vomit-inducing sea vessel? Count me in! What a shame then that all shuttle ferries have already been cancelled in anticipation of the worsening weather. With mother nature threatening, and the populous telling us “there really isn’t much to do in a storm but drink” we admit defeat as far as outdoor activities are concerned and set off on a tour. La Societé Secrete – a distillery in fact so secret that I couldn’t identify it on my bank statement the following week when undergoing a fraud check – operates from an old church overlooking the cliffs, so is automatically the prettiest distillery I’ve ever been in, comfortably beating those charming but grimy London railway arches and garages. They’re something of a cult hit, often seen on Tshirts around Montréal, and we pick up bottles of Dry, Camerise (one of many random local fruits) & Cassis Gins along with a new Amaro bitters which I’ve since cracked into. We also grab “one of everything” for friends back in the city. I like the look of one of their very soft jumpers, but am put off by the hipster connection, and besides if I’m grabbing merch, I feel much more affinity with Pit Caribou, where we’re headed next. Tossing our spoils into the car boot, we realise the whip is in quite the state. Logs for a fire, pillows, beer, underwear (unclear whether clean or dirty), charging cables, damp towels, coffee cups, cheese curds (yes from day 1) and unfurling toilet paper – a photo would have served as a good trip summary, but I hadn’t the presence of mind.

Next stop is a return to the Microbrasserie Pit Caribou where we barbecued the other day, and where I buy a cosy hoody in size ‘Medium” which at 6’5 and 190lb puts into perspective the size of some of these rural Quebecois beer enthusiasts! We can’t resist a last drink here, so we grab a takeaway can of Session de Lesseps and climb the rocky ridge in what are now aggressively grey, gusty conditions, and huddle together in crevasse watching the growing waves crash in. In a coup of pathetic fallacy, conversation takes a darker turn, covering the depressing conditions in the northern territories of the country, youth suicide rates, immigration politics and the challenge faced by small businesses choosing product quality and human experience over profit margin. It’s a sign of how universally positive an experience the trip has been that this accidental slide into the sombre doesn’t dampen our mood or lead to any arguments. A perky little lone seal snaps us out of the slump, frolicking in waves which are now a little too close for comfort. We take some of his spring in our step and decide to head inside to the Pub Pit Caribou down the road, and given we’re chilled to the bone, to another alcoholic coffee with our pint.

If this were an English pub, there would be a roaring fire, but trying to to be not too disappointed we seat ourselves – yes at the bar – and listen to the locals shoot the shit, reminiscing about past storms and warning us home early. Comfortingly, they proudly promise the town never loses electricity.  More porter Gaspésienne – maybe my favourite beer of the trip – and thoughts having now been turned to colder climes, we set about creating an Autumn/Winter to-do list to help get me through my first seriously snowy season. It’s a classic rainy day activity, filling us with hope and excitement for life-after-holiday. If I make it through even a quarter of the bars, ice-skating rinks, sugar-shacks, snowy music festivals, ski trips and US border-hopping I’ll have put together a hell of an extra-curricular resumé. Free shots from Alex send us on our way down the street to chef Greg - of moose Bolognese fame - manning the pizza oven at Maison de Pecheur, where we sit in the all-glass conservatory, a glorious place from which to witness the lashing rain and howling sea wind. We’re been recommended the cuttlefish, and we can’t decide between a seafood pizza or pasta each big enough for two, so order the full trio of dishes and a bottle of Muscadet which nails the pairing in a big spot. A little breadyness from the yeast echoing the pizza dough, sharp citrus emulating a lemon wedge for a whole layer of sliced salmon, while the acidity cuts through the creaminess of the sauce. We save four slices of the pizza to crack an egg on the following morning. Unable now to see the sea 20m away thanks to the sheet of horizontal water-bullets now pounding the panes, and cosy as I am with the wine and carb overload, we surrender in our game of weather chicken and nip home before we become those ‘morons’ I mentioned earlier and need to be rescued by the authorities. The pizza box serves as a crucial shield, but as we step outside, a giant power outage plunges us into darkness…and I thought that never happened?

There’s obviously even less to do in a caravan than a pub, but I’ve always had a childish enthusiasm for a good squall, whether it be imagining two Pokémon duelling it out in the skies of my youth, or suspecting a divine participation in the Thai New Year water-fight festival of Songkran. Separated from the deluge now only by 12mm of creaking plywood, the noise is epic and we’re both a-buzz with adrenaline. We haul in our stash of trunk-booze (canned Chardonnay, Raspberry Dubbel, Barleywine) and natter the night away, stepping outside only once more, much later, as Dorian reaches the height of its powers for a naked pee in the punishing open air, just because it would be, and was, awesome!

Song of the Day - Everything by Nujabes in the stormy caravan
Beer - Everything by Pit Caribou, either on draught or takeaway bottle
 

It may not seem like an incredibly demanding regimen of eating, drinking, wandering and river-drifting, but the driving, camping and constant beer was beginning to take a minor toll. The two of us being naturally up-and-at-‘em early bird types, we nonetheless took the opportunity - despite nose-licking and heavy purring – of a lie in until seasoned sea-kayak tour guide and all around outdoorsman Kevin was ready to take us for a spin on the water.
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Slightly before noon and fortified with more Coureurs des Bois coffee, we don some sexy wetsuits, and this time laughing along to Kevin’s version of a water safety briefing (he has generously promised us “the full works” as even girlfriend Christine has never had it). We’d be a sharing a two man/woman/person kayak today, and curse my imposing height, my long limbs prohibit me from taking the driver’s seat in the rear, so I settle down up front resolving to provide paddle power and just take in the scenery. Lucky I had that epiphany yesterday about handing over control hey? Thankfully the views of both the coastline from which we depart and the Rocher Percé up close were both majestic, however at a distinct point in Kevin’s coastal geology lesson 15 minutes in, I felt a familiar nausea and accompanying dread coming on. Having not suffered serious seasickness since vomiting voluminously through my scuba regulator in South Africa back in 2009, I thought I’d outgrown this weakness, but as we navigated the increasingly choppy water, the beautiful surroundings played second fiddle to my internal mantra of “right arm, left arm, look at horizon”. I was however, distracted by the arrival of a posse/heard/murder of seals, curiously bobbing up all around us, just yards from our vessels, to play, before tilting heads askew, rolling over and sliding back under us as we coasted. After such a dearth of wild animals, a close encounter with these dogs of the sea snapped me out of my ‘mal-de-mer’ enough to enjoy the experience overall. We also got to witness the daily rescue of morons not heeding tidal warnings and getting stranded on the rock. “Oh…turns out you didn’t know better than the centuries old lifeguard service? Shocker”. Thirty minutes of gritted teeth later I collapse on terra firma, a salty, sweaty starfish, smiling relieved once more into the resurgent sun.

Still a little jelly legged, it’s a beautiful afternoon for a hike, so with another tuna sandwich (quicker this time but with all the  extra cheese loose in the paper bag) and a couple of Pit Caribou Blondes we began our ascent of Mont-St-Anne, the primary peak overlooking the bay. It’s only twenty-five minutes up a gentle, winding, sun-dappled earth track; the kind you delight in straying from as a child, rummaging in the undergrowth and carving you own unique, steeper path. A fluorescent jacketed Rocket Grunt at the entrance of the sparkling new viewing platform informs us with somehow no hint of sheepishness that admittance will cost 9$ each, so we laugh in his face and descend fifty yards back to a bench with just as good a view. A hiss, a clink of bottles and a self-satisfied sip & sigh as we take in the Rocher from above. Masculinity having taken a hit earlier with the whole sea-sickness palaver, I gain back some arbitrary man points with the classic “do you want to borrow my jumper?” move as the early evening shade lowers the temperature.

We sit a long while, and Laurence recounts to me a detailed history of the Quebec student protests of 2012, in which she participated heavily. Known here as the “Printemps Erable” or “Maple Spring” (a pun on Printemps Arabe) I take a while to get my head around how you can justify a six month strike and violence on both sides over raising tuition fees to what still falls way below what they were in the pre-Nick Clegg backstabbing UK. “Why are the French so bloody dramatic when it comes to protests?” I thought. Frustrated, I listen…always, I’m finding more with age, a valuable tool. Finally I begin to understand the added complexities of Quebecois pride in affordable education, the dismissal of youth priorities by a selfish older generation voting on things that don’t affect them and the emotion added by any violent oppression from the state. In fact, the story has much more in common with today’s Brexit scenario than our own tuition fee kerfuffle.

Enlightened (although it’s very me to pat myself on the back for listening rather than congratulating the student activist raconteur) we shuffle our way back down the slope to town, and relocate to a fishery with the most stunning array of live lobster (and craft beer) I’ve ever seen. Tonight, we’re having a banquet. The aforementioned king of crustaceans is joined by crab, scallops, prawns and cod, all inexpensive and all from the local waters, fishing having always been the economic backbone of this region. Despite my offers to cook for our hosts to make up for their hospitality, I’m relegated to garlic butter duty as Kevin, as I said an expert in all things on and in water, walks us through the preparation and degustation of our haul. I dispatch a disgusting amount of rice as I again feel my usual 5 meals a day stomach rebelling against vacation rations. To celebrate Laurence & Christine’s 10 year friendiversary there’s a bottle of Champagne on hand, because as Martin Thibault, head beer aficionado in these parts writes “if you find nothing {beer} to pair with your plate, there is always Champagne”. I wish there was always Champagne... The final few hours pass with plenty of shell cracking, fizz-pouring and brain slurping; “It’s the best bit!”. We roll comatosed back to the caravan and to slumber.

Song of the Day: Leon Bridges – River (but really the whole NPR tiny desk half hour, while cooking)

Sunshine at 8am, there’s no time to be wasted. We grab a tuna sandwich a-piece in the now the clearly very picturesque town centre; sunlight really does wonders for any place. It’s another ten minute wait for tinned fished in a hunk of bread but it doesn’t even bother us, we must be relaxing! Heading back down the 132 to do some kayaking on the beautiful Rivière Bonaventure, this time I make sure to “ooooh” and “ahhh” at all the seaside tableaus I couldn’t fully appreciate in yesterday’s gloom. I’m DJing again, but Skepta’s revenge rap doesn’t fit the mood, so I swing for our friend Ariane’s 90’s pop throwback playlist, and we take a tour through Backstreet Boys, Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morisette. There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure.

The river safety video is predictably patronising, given the maximum depth on our 8km section is 70cm, but eventually we leap enthusiastically into two kayaks and paddle swiftly away from the other dozen clients ruining our tranquillity. It becomes clear though, as we cover ground fast, that a preferable strategy for solitude would be to hang back, so we let the plebs disappear around the sweeping bend, tie ourselves together and crack a can of Miller Highlife (“The Champagne of Beers”). As I said, no such thing as a guilty pleasure. The cans float alongside us in the cooling current, and we take in the foliage filled banks, the stark rock formations jutting upward from within, and even the occasional chalet, the shoreline garden of one in which we derive some satisfaction from relieving ourselves. It’s almost too perfect a scene, uncannily flawless like a film set, and the promised wildlife again eerily absent. “Which of these houses would you most like to buy?”…”None” I reply. No property can bring me the happiness I feel drifting along under these blue skies and sunshine; it’s bliss, and maybe my favourite moment of the whole trip .

Shit! With all the appreciation of the moment and our kayaking complacency we’re now well behind schedule, but we could use some exercise following all this beer, so we power 4km into the wind to avoid being the last home, I myself paddling unnecessarily hard just to show Laurence (though of course she didn’t ask) what a phenomenal athletic specimen I am…such a petty man. Out of the water the wind is chilly, I having twice dunked myself heroically saving someone’s errant plastic bag, then my own sunglasses. We shiver onto a classic yellow school bus for a lift back to the car, and chow down on some crunchy Miss Vicky’s crisps, discussing the rumoured shortening of the 5 second rule to 4, as we drop and rescue stragglers from our greedy handfuls. It’s suggested that for dinner tonight we take advantage of the barbecues offered on the seaside patio of Pit Caribou’s actual microbrewery. Je suis down. I’ve honestly planned nothing this trip and gems like this keep coming…maybe I can learn to hand control of the wheel to others more often.

Some steaks, incredibly flavourful “patates” (no ‘apples of the ground’ in Quebec) and some very intriguing seafood sausages; that’s pork with chunks of prawn and lobster inside, go down delightfully with more top-notch beer and the company of two dogs. A little authorial self-indulgence here: I crush some sort of “I can, and you cannette” pun, but I’m told I don’t have to follow every gag boasting “I’m funny in French now!”. I am though. Canadian government provided THC oil gives an added giggle to the exchange of travelling horror stories among our group as the light fades, and I sit back and enjoy not being a key player in the conversation for once. An after dinner coffee spiked with Quebec’s own maple liqueur - Coureur des Bois - is so delicious it becomes a daily ritual and helps us to get cosy in the caravan that will be our abode these next three nights, perched atop the Cap d’Espoir with a stunning 270 degree sea view. We bed down with two feline roommates insisting on sharing our pillows, one of which later snores so impossibly loud I get a dig in the ribs under the assumption it’s me. Everyone here has multiple pets; I can only assume both for company and for something to talk about in the loneliness of what must be a tough winter off-season. For us though animal friends are just a bonus in another fantastic day.
Songs of the Day:
As Long As You Love Me – Backstreet Boys
Jenny from the Block - Jennifer Lopez

Beer List:
Vilains

• Foret IPA
• California Style IPA

Miller HighLife
Pit Caribou

• Lollipop Berliner Weiss
• Spontanée Camerise
• Arlequin DIPA
• Session IPA de Lesseps

Awoken not by the expected pitter-patter of raindrops on canvas, but the same lilting waves that sent us off to sleep, I’m momentarily filled with hope that maybe the bad weather has passed us by. A tentative poke of head through zip to reveal a very British greyness and some worrying dark clouds over the water banishes this flight of fancy, and though still alone on the beautiful beach, we opt to decamp to the highly recommended and only café in town, Brûlerie de Quai, before we’re soaked. We are nonetheless caught in drizzle while trudging (my opportunity to teach some English as apparently our range of stroll, saunter, wander etc. have no equivalents) back through a seaside town which I can now see is much more charming than any UK settlement I’ve graced ending in “on sea”. Though our pillows are now damp (an oversight in carrying them loose) our spirits are lifted with by a couple of Americanos and a browse of the Microbrewery Micromarché featuring salmon, local wagyu-style yak steaks, hop tea, fishing coats and preserved Gaspésian insects. Unfortunately, our plan of kayaking the nearby Bonaventure river is scuppered, but we decide to head on up to Percé and the promise of a shower and a real bed, then drive back in the morning.

This road-heavy plan is vindicated immediately by the increasing beauty of the 132, which on my left is shadowed by rolling mounts and river valleys overgrown with firs, pines and spruces (all different on account of needle positioning apparently) and not 10 yards to my right either endless, calm open water, or sheer cliff. It won’t be such a chore to spend 5 hours a day on this after all, however my only wish is that, with yellow hazard signs constantly promising meese (if multiple goose are geese?) and deer, I would actually like to see some wildlife bigger than the shouty campsite chipmunk. The “animalerie” we pass is apparently more of a pet store than moose-sanctuary. Fun fact: “kites” here are “cerf volants” or “flying deer”. A strawberry farm drop-in to pick up some wine and a tart for our future hosts passes pleasantly until the shop-manager goes all frosty on us for not buying 5 cases of rhubarb wine each, and I’m reminded why I prefer the beer community.
Percé is the touristic capital of the region, one of those villages of a few thousand which swells one-hundred-fold in peak summer season; the favourable Canadian dollar over the past few years bringing anglophones from other provinces, along with the irrepressible and apparently highly irritating French (from France)! Today though it’s deserted and as we round a bend and crest a hill, the jewel in it’s crown, the Rocher Percé comes into view. I’m thrice assured that this vista is much more beautiful when it isn’t raining, but really a 100m rock formation pierced by one of the worlds largest natural arches is breath-taking enough today. On entering town we swing by the mythical, only ever whispered (some might say overhyped) Auval Microbrewery down an un-signed gravel track. They’ve barely enough stock of the one beer available – IPA Arcane 17 – to fulfil our maximum personal allocation of six bottles, and when we later uncap one, I notice it was bottled that morning; fresh as can be! It’s phenomenal beer, but clearly a case of rarity-driven demand.

Pulling up to Pub Pit Caribou, the heart of the community and a brewery I’m very familiar with from Montréal, I’m a touch nervous to meet a band of Laurence’s friends and potentially lose my vacation chill while trying to be hilarious, charismatic, and indisputably justify (in reality to no one but myself) my presence on this trip. Within minutes of meeting Kevin, Christine and Alex however I’m at home and my hitherto tedious preoccupation with passenger-seat French practice pays off in a dazzling display of breezy bonhomie. There’s really not much to be done except commit to the pub at 15h30, so we settle in, ordering pints of chocolatey-comforting, cold-brew-refreshing Gaspésienne 13 porter and then a smashing “all dressed” pizza from the supermarket deli next door. We’ll return here often so I’ll save the review and attach a blurry picture summarising the scene. We shift spots for a very necessary hot shower, displaying our gratitude to host Alex with a case of lukewarm Laurentides (think Rolling Rock) and a canned Cab Sauv left over from last night’s picnic. His fridge is brimming with Pit’s spontaneously fermented specials and stashed Auval, but he’s effusive in his thanks and welcome, as is Charlot his handsome young Bernese Mountain Dog who devastatingly 2 days later is diagnosed with terminal cancer. A night of fairly freaky virtual-reality musical light-sabre games (yes) followed by some classic Mario Kart & Party action, and accompanied by an out-of-this-world moose Bolognese courtesy of chef friend Greg replenish my rain-tested contentedness back up to 100 (or 110 if you’re a footballer) before we hop in bed and crash harder than Donkey Kong on Rainbow Road.

Song of the Day: Rebirth of Slick (Cool like dat) – Digable Planets

Beer List:
Pit Caribou

• Gose IPA Barachois
• Gaspésienne No. 13 Porter
• IPA Les Appalaches
• Spontanée Perséides

Laurentides (luke warm)
Miller High Life (“The Champagne of Beers”)

We awake to welcome the first of only a couple of sunny days, our berth bathed in morning rays, piquing our positivity for the hours ahead as we take in our 180 degree view, gas-burner coffee in hand, on a deserted park bench not 10 yards from where we sat on rocks in the dark. Peace comes naturally this time, so I let the crickets do the talking, and we re-remember with the help of some bottles what beers we had sipped on (siroter, word learned!) just hours before. Packing the tent as painlessly as we’d erected it we hit road again, this time with me behind the wheel for only my second time on Canadian roads, following instructions to “follow route 132 forever”. It rapidly becomes clear I can’t yet simultaneously speak and drive in French as I clip someone’s mirror pulling over for brunch and a beer in Riviere-du-Loup. Aux Fous Brassants outrageously isn’t yet open at 11h43 so we endure another lengthy wait for a coffee next-door, waking up to the fact that we’re no longer in the city and service may not have the urgency to which we’re accustomed. Discussion centres on London’s darling; the Flat White, yet to be seen in these parts, so I show Laurence McDonalds’ excellent advert satirizing the drink, and we forgive them yesterday’s break-farce-t. I pick up another new word, encouragingly on page 1 of Leo the Lion’s children’s book (gargouiller – to rumble stomach…which I use a lot) and it’s time to take our Passeports en Fut for a spin. It’s is a handy app giving the drinker a 3$ flight at 13 microbreweries of their choice; no brainer. We opt for sessionable stuff as we have driving to do, and it’s not our only beer stop, relaxing on a quaint, sunny high-street mostly populated by florists.

As we cut south across the peninsula on the only part of the route not hugging spectacular coastline, we pass through the unremarkable Rimouski where Le Bien, Le Malt is our first disappointment. The bar itself is fine, but our server gestures unenthusiastically at the chalk board and sighs “the beers are up there, but there’s nothing left”. Charming. Luckily a sour-ish concoction, which for whatever reason (tourism, operational incompetence etc.)  is our only decent choice, is a real banger, taking a tour of the tastebuds through acid, to salt, to a long bready finish not usually present in the style. We refuel our bodies on more saucisson and nuts - this time accompanied dried cranberries and some local cheese! – and our phones as we’re free-camping tonight. I would stress that the tech has been used strictly for Maps & Spotify thus far, and no scrolling; surely a cardinal road-trip sin. Besides, what ARE our favourite letters? Not X or OK…too mainstream.

On the next stretch begins Laurence’s essential initiation into UK Grime Music 2005-13, of which the clear favourite is Akala’s poetic powerhouse and song of the day ‘Shakespeare’. Pulling up in an already dark (no sunset today) Carleton-sur-mer we make haste in setting up camp on the beach before the oncoming rain and wander along to Le Naufrageur just six minutes too late for dinner. Openly devastated (a man cannot survive on cured pork alone) we accept the apologetic chips and dip and actually take excitement in picking out a petrol station picnic next door before pulling up a stool and saying Re-bonjour at the bar. We always sit at the bar; good things happen when you sit at the bar. Having previously hosted a 35 strong tap takeover, I was already aware that the beers here are well-made and delicious so I wrap my lips around a Calico Jack, a new world IPA so mango-and-peachy I can’t believe there’s no fruit added. Our misfortune continues as we order the chalkboard bottle special we’ve been eyeing, only to find out that she too (beers are female) is sold out. No matter, the friendly barman distracts us with chat of the sociological impacts tourism here and our beloved service sector. I embark upon what will be a lengthy paper vocabulary list for the trip with the super Quebecois “Je te feel” and “solide” which may seem simple, but you only know to just say the same word in a French accent once you’ve heard it. Finishing up what was another superb swiggathon with a few free shooters of variously blended imperial stouts, our new barman friend saves us a twenty-minute walk with a lift in his van/mobile summer bedroom. Great; people are kind here too.
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Our Petro-Canada sponsored midnight feast of Korean BBQ jerky, egg sandwich and 'Bulles de Nuit' (sparkling wine-juice ‘mousse’ in a can) goes down a treat - as really anything would - reclining on a driftwood pillow next to my quickly cave-manned campfire, alone save for each other under the stars.  Day 2 in the books, and despite having missed both beer and dinner at our checkpoints, it was perfect.

Aux Fous Brassants

• Huluberlu Red Ale
• Fun Noir Dry Stout
• Yankee APA
• NEIPA
• Zygomatique Low Alcohol (amazing)
• Brin de Folie Tripel

Le Bien, Le Malt

• Gose of some sort?

Le Naufrageur

• Calico Jack New World IPA
• Doris Kolsch
• Ploye a Trou Wild Ale
• Table Beer
• Achab DIPA
• Mary Read Hopped Barleywine
• Raccoon Imperial Black IPA

The trip starts with an inauspicious visit to McDonalds. Hung over from “working” a sun-baked kiosk at Chambly Beer Festival, fatigued from the back to back “AFD” work shifts required to earn the holiday, and having collected my necessary backpack so carelessly left in a Chinatown drinkery, me and my friend/travel companion/Quebecois Spirit Guide Laurence are cursing the slowest fast-food branch known to man, and awaiting two McBagels and the first two of 1000 large, black roadside coffees. We remind ourselves that there’s no rush, we’re on holiday, and we can just relax. We’re destined for the Gaspé Peninsula (or Gah-spay-see in French pronunciation for mum) a highly spoken of outstanding area of natural beauty to the East of Quebec, host to innumerable flora and forna (some of which I hope to eat), mythically beautiful sunsets and microbreweries galore.
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Once nestled back in the passenger seat - having inhaled my bagel – I set to the task of embodying the ultimate travelling companion, seeing as Laurence is providing the car, travel route, tent, sleeping mats, itinerary, friends to stay with (and arguably some excellent company of her own) having trodden this route solo half-a-dozen times before. Another quick pit-stop for fresh & squeaky cheese curds “we’re on holiday already!” thrown down our necks like cinema popcorn, and I begin to fill the four hour drive to Kamouraska with what I consider the highest form of road-trip chat and tunes (this article comes with a playlist) ) ultimately wondering the big question; “What IS my favourite letter? Don’t worry, I suppose I don’t need one!”. The response from the driver’s seat: “You know…the greatest sign of a friendship is when you can just be silent together….”. Point taken. Wounded as I was, she will later complain of laughing so much as to re-aggravate a 3-month-old cheek injury, so I’ll “quietly” consider mission accomplished. This will be the only day without an accompanying song, as to acclimatise to a heavily French foray into rural Quebec we opt for a bilingual, comedy podcast.
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Having arrived in Kamouraska, we pitch our tent in just enough twilight at one of the most beautiful campsites I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying at, on the edge of the ever-widening St Laurent river. I quickly discover that insect-repelant is not optional - but Laurence has me covered here too, literally - so we stroll off eagerly down a fairy-tale, cross-clearing garden path to Microbrasserie Tete d’Allumette and our first beer. Braving the mosquitoes on the waterside patio just long enough to witness a cloudy sunset, we get more comfortable in a glass conservatory, and later a warm, wood-panelled taproom. Our tasting list (we share everything) over four of five hours of increasingly profound conversation follows this post, with highlights including the Imperial Stout Tete de Gasket (was there a Cognac barrel involved?) accompanied by a locally made blue cheese saucisson. Though delicious, this was the first of a few over-estimations of pub kitchens capabilities in the tourist off-season, of which we were purposefully bang in week 1. Some top notch maple caramelised nuts would have to see me through the night, so we take the three beers we haven’t tried in bottle from the neighbouring kiosk, pay a hefty but well worth it bill, and retire to the rockery that is our tent patio for the night, swapping stories and ever more enthusiastic sentiments of how happy we are to be making this pilgrimage together, quaffing pear barley wine from the bottle in the pitch black, surveying the blinking lights on the opposite shoreline. Disappointed and relieved to be told we won’t be troubled by bears in this particular spot, day 1 comes to a snug close in the trusty two-man.

Beer List:
Tête d’Allumette  

• Tête Carrée Bitter
• Tête d’ailleurs Gose
• Blanche de Tête et Les 7 Grains
• Gasket de Tête Dry Dtout
• Tête de Houblon 24/Haze Brett IPA
• Presqu’ile Smoked
• Imperial Gasket de Tête Stout
• Clapp! Barleywine with Pears
• Oktoberfest Gaspesian Saison
• L’œil de mouton Vossaol

​Song of the Day: Podcasts

It’s Friday afternoon. I’m a travel-loving food and drink enthusiast (or stalker) and I’m in Montreal – a city famed for both these aspects of its culture – for a ‘long’, but surely too short weekend of leisure. As in all good stories, I’ve skipped the tedium of airport arrival and AirBnB check-in) infuriatingly delaying the real “beginning” of the trip. Finally, like a dog forced to remain on the leash until the park gates, I’m free to run riot across a new city. As a smug “not part of the mainstream” type, I’m at the furthest point possible from the downtown chain bars and backwards-hatted, bearded white dudes in basketball jerseys (I myself forwards capped, forever baby-faced & surreptitiously checking playoff scores on my phone).  Need a coffee and something to line my stomach in preparation for the beery road ahead, I grab a delicious Italian style Americano at the bustling, decades tested Café Olimpico in Mile End - a trendy neighbourhood a-tip the sprawling Plateau that I’ll eventually make my way to - then choose St Viateur bagel over Fairmount in a decision purely based on proximity, but that I’ll retrospectively rationalise as quality driven in the pointless war for bagel loyalty. Multigrain, light cream cheese; a ‘healthy’ choice which, in my mind, counterbalances the forthcoming tsunami of artisan beer that shall follow it down my thirsty throat. Deliciously fresh, I inhale it, powerwalking to the true start-point of my crawl, Vices & Versa.
Espoused by many as the best beer bar in the city, it’s only logical I start here, when I’m so flush with optimism that pretty much any brew would give me the “it’s everything I hoped for” validation that washes over me with my first sip, swirl, swallow and sigh. From a marvellous list displayed only on the many chalkboards, I choose ‘No Tahoma Farmhouse Pale Ale’ from Brasserie Dunham, powerful in farmyard funk and floral aromatics, but light & dry enough on the palate for the perfect starter. The sun is surprisingly strong on the leafy terrace to the bar’s rear, and I’m thankful for the beer’s tart, lemon flesh edge. I know that each bar I’ll visit is worth more than an evening’s stay, but my mission is one of variety, sacrificing the luxury of lingering for a sense of having somewhat ‘completed’ Montreal by Sunday evening. That said, with 40 beers on draft, I grab a 5oz galopin to chug – Le Castor’s iconic Yakima IPA – a flash of caramelised orange swiftly banished by the kind of aggressively crisp finish I took for granted before the wave of juicy, milkshakey NEIPAs that robbed us of the concept of balance.
Onwards then, to Brasserie Harricana which immediately throws a spanner in the works of my pacey pilgrimage. Gleaming copper, expansively lit by floor to ceiling windows, I pull up a stool (as I’m flying solo) at the long marble bar where a suave, white shirted bartender with a romantically French name and a twirly moustache that I initially hate, hands me a draught list and a food menu so inviting that I’m trapped by the promise of a top notch beer-paired dinner of my own design, and this warm-smiling, devilishly bright-eyed wallet assassin (though he does later reward my spending with a couple of freebies). A fresh, piquant steak tartare twinned with a spicy Szechuan RyePA at 5% starts me off blindingly, and if I had any self-restraint would have sufficed. However, a giant, silky-steak cheeseburger oozing with grease (let’s call it stomach lining) topped with bacon, rich, dusky mushrooms and glossy beer gravy follow the sophisticated starter. What better to go with, than one of my favourite styles, a Maya Porter! Roast coffee and dry, savoury meatiness to pair with my grill-marked umami patty, with a credibly prickly chilli heat and bitterness to re-enliven my palate. Mouth still somewhat coated though by the heaviness of the dish, I opt for the #Nebb.Yolo aged in Californian red wine barrels, armed with both the tannin and acidity to see off the tail of the beef. Bottomless pit as I am, I’m playing a dangerous game here, and can’t afford to wallow in post-meal stupor, so I’m back on my feet and out the door.
The sun just having dipped below the horizon, it’s welcomely bracing in the spring evening shadow, and I gather myself with a quick blast of The Pharcyde’s “Passin’ Me By” and cut probably a less purposeful stride than I imagine to Isle de Garde a few minutes North-East. I need to re-start back at the bottom of the flavour intensity ladder or I’ll soon be lost in the inky world of imperial stouts, a stumbling fool unable to recall a single drop. This is the key to a good crawl; get outside, have a word with yourself and go back to something sessionable to arrest momentum. The dunkelweiss brewed in house does the trick on this occasion, crusty brown bread in liquid form. Two novelties impress me as I contentedly study the chic, spacious taproom. Firstly, the fanciest of dispense systems on the tap wall, allowing them to simultaneously serve beers at different temperatures, Bravo! and secondly “a round of beers for the chefs” actually printed on the menu. I could lie here and claim I rewarded this brazen bid, but I’ve just blown a day’s hospitality wage in 90 minutes at Harricana, and don’t plan to be washing dishes myself to cover my tab.
I’ll skip the stroll this time (aside from the unremarkable nature of my journey to Rosemont, I need to save my synonyms for ‘walk’ if I’m to avoid repetition or thesaurus vomiting). Brewpub Brouhaha comes well recommended, and as it immediately gives off more of a dive-bar sensibility than the well-dressed previous two venues, I relax opposite a pixie-ish, semi-shaven punk type girl behind the bar, at whose Quebec accent and depth of beer knowledge I marvel in equal measure. I grab a glass of Saison Voatsiperifery (which I obviously order by pointing rather than pronouncing. I’m charitably offered a bite of the ‘must-try’ Poutiflette; poutine with onions, lardons & fromage Pied-de-vent, by the pixie’s conversation partner at the bar, and still more generously a glass of her 10th birthday edition Sergeant Ripin Farmhouse Ale, aged in Chardonnay barrels. Damn, don’t these French-Canadians know their way around a wine barrel! This generosity of spirit is something I encounter again and again, arguably outweighing the beer itself in my reasons to revisit, hence my so regularly providing bartender character profile.
Offering my clumsily effusive thanks, I make a move to MaBrasserie, a cavernous, modern co-op taproom under the umbrella of which fall most of the breweries I visit today, and where I step back into IPAs with the Tribal, American interpretation of the style, bursting with leafy freshness. I try to show off a bit as I work my way through their Pimentiere home-made beer hot sauces on crispbread (yes I’m still eating) as I become ever more eager to show all these great, knowledgeable people that I’m one of them. My synopsis of Bohemian vs German pilsners is almost certainly unwelcome, but since it’s delivered in my second tongue gives me the confidence necessary to continue jumping into conversation with the locals. It’s evident that most will experience this bar as a group, as MaBrasserie hosts excellent beer tours, with knowledgeable guides making their well-trodden script and accompanying banter sound always as fresh as their maiden delivery. A giant, multipurpose space, I can’t picture a time of day I wouldn’t drink here, but unlike the almost universal 3am finish in the city, this lot knock it on the head two hours earlier, so I’m pointed towards Verre Bouteille to the East, which satisfies the yearning for ‘more’ that habitually plagues me this far into an evening. I push my way through a rideaux-culous entry curtain (my first legitimate French pun) into a jam-packed with all sorts, borderline-deafening live music tavern with a smaller but no less diligently chosen beer list. I people watch, lament that I never had the patience to learn the guitar (something that only ever matters to me when I’m drunk, watching the hero of the hour strum away in the spotlight) and sip my final glass of the night, of which I won’t pretend to remember in much detail. A Labatt 50 at half the price would have done fine. A long, moonlit walk home through the beautiful Parc Lafontaine and down the quintessentially outdoor-staired rows of cosy duplexes gives me time to reflect on a first foray of near perfection, which would take some beating on day two. “I want everyone to experience that exact thing” I affirm to myself, and so I put it to paper, not just for others to read but to attempt in tribute to the first of many a night out in Montréal.

Finally I’m comfortable with the day to day of work – mainly thanks to an “in at the deep end” Easter weekend of sun-madness that I recognised all too well from many Aprils in the UK. Just imagine that in extremis as people see their first sun after 4 months of sub-zero hibernation. Thus, I can remind myself that I’m not here to be a pub manager again, but to embark on this new broader business of consultancy, and so my exploration of the city’s bars continues, along with making the jump in converting the abundance of friendly faces into the much rarer phenomenon of friendship. This, regardless of the better cost of living here, is pretty expensive, and trust me, when that first pay cheque hits with a tax deduction of 50% - “welcome to Canada” smirks my boss – no amount of preparation can stop that from stinging a little. I’m happy to pay though, given how much I’ve gushed about the country so far. I’ve not encountered as many of the negatives that, for example, I felt in Copenhagen where up to 68% tax seemed to drive what I perceived as a nanny state, bereft of any migration/multiculturalism beyond tourists. This feels altogether a more inclusive city, and a more humanist form of taxation, when I observe all the government sponsored social initiatives (less the homelessness discussed in the previous article).

I’m doing my best to reign in my natural desire to be busy and avoid falling into a work-hard play-hard pattern I’ve been happy to escape, but it’s been a jam-packed fortnight when I look back. Fitting in one day skiing in Vermont before the end of the season was a real bonus; a one day cross-border road trip where we had the slopes almost entirely to ourselves, with more than enough snow to work with. I’ve been out of the winter sports game for a decade now, save for one day in the alps during my 4 months in Besancon, so my two bruised hips are testament to a rocky road back to competence. What I did observe through all the falling down and getting up again was surely a benefit of the life change I’m undergoing, in a new-found patience with failure and willingness to just be bad at stuff. Until now in my life I’ve always hated activities which I’m not instantly good at (golf, guitar and meditation all come to mind) but having spent 6 weeks as a newby at most things here, rediscovering my language and starting a life from scratch, a newly burgeoning calm helped me to gamely re-practice my skiing fundamentals without getting frustrated, and I enjoyed the process of de-rusting, reaping the rewards in the afternoon with something of a return to form. I’d advise we all try being a beginner at something again around this time of life, it’s seemingly great for the mind and definitely the ego.

I was lucky enough in timing my arrival here to witness Canada’s first legal 4/20 celebration, as thousands headed to Parc Mont Royal in a plume of smoke, and my new housemates Mo & Mike kindly invited me in on their hang with some home-made hip-hop. It’s only now becoming normal for me to see people busting out grinders at restaurant tables, and to see weed branded like beer or artisanal chocolate. There’s a lot of issues to overcome still, so check out Netflix’s The Grass is Greener for some enlightenment on the whitewashing of the legal cannabis economy, stealing deserved representation and profits from those ethnic groups previously persecuted by the drug’s legislation.

As other viewing habits go, to balance out some of my art-housey viewing of the past month, I treated myself to an opening night trip to watch Avengers: Endgame at the multiplex around the corner from me. While I won’t discuss the plot, I have to say that watching it with a more Americanised audience who whooped, cheered and applauded throughout really heightened my enjoyment of this finale to 10 years’ worth of films which Marvel impossibly managed to make live up to the hype. I wolf-whistled Chris’s Evans, Hemsworth & Pratt with the best of them, and bizarrely choked up at a clunky but undeniably awesome feminist hero set piece.
My incessantly chatting my way around the city paid dividends this week in the form of some actual parties. A very familiar pub “leaving party” piss-up let off some steam, but earlier that night I attended an informal birthday dinner for a friend of a friend, during which the main event of the party would be ‘story telling’…My vicious teenage cynicism having only been enhanced by half a decade living in what must be the judgement capital of the world, I would have rolled my eyes hard two months ago, but my new adventure mindset paid off as I was warmly welcomed into a room of the most charming, engaging people (on whom I road-tested an IPA and carrot cake pairing I intend to use later) and when it came to the Graham Norton big red chair style anecdotes, every one was impossibly hilarious and often had a potent message at the denouement. I’m very glad I went. At the other end of the spectrum, I also engaged in a fairly grimy post-work night out at a bar with an actual skate park in it – a cash-and-cans-of-Coors-Lite-only kind of dive club, where I had fun, but since having been explained the venue’s atrocious sexual assault history, I won’t be going back.

As far as crafty beer venues go, I’m continuing to work my way around the ‘cinq a sept’ busy post work slots across the neighbourhoods. Boswell at the north end of Ave. Mont Royal had a pleasant family-friendly atmosphere given the chic, modern décor, and their ‘Binette XXX’ Funky Tripel was probably to pick of my flight, following some middle of the road IPAs. Espace Public came highly recommended and while the entertaining, borderline too cool for school barman (I realise the hypocrisy as I’ve gone all curly mopped, hoop-earringed craft beer ‘connoisseur’, but it was time for a change) liberally dished out tasters some fairly whacky product, - ‘Dreamsicle Sour Farmhouse Orange IPA’ doing way to much in my mouth for comfort - their ‘P’tit Dej Oatmeal Breakfast Stout’ hit the spot and kept me there beyond happy hour.

Bier Markt downtown on the other hand was fairly disappointing, a super generic set of taps and impersonal service I’ve not been accustomed to here, but then again in a central area of the city crawling with stags and hens I don’t know what I was expecting, and I did get a merciful break from the hockey playoffs to watch some NBA. Bar Waverly in Mile End was much better however, giving me the chance to try a few hot cans on the market, including ‘Noctem Catnip’ exploitatively merchandised with kitten pictures.  It also gave me another taste of delicious failure as I more than once failed to move the waitress with any sort of flirtatious banter…can’t win them all…or indeed many. I’ve also fallen predictably hard, given my fervent fermentation fanship, for Kombucha, which is in plentiful supply around town; shout out the beautifully sunlit bunker Café Osmo, a ‘Sangria Kombucha’ on keg at work, and Quebec’s own Rise producer. Having always avoided it – despite many acclaimed health benefits – as an overly niche new trend back home, I trusted something about its abundance here in all my favourite venues and would heartily recommend non-believers jump on the bandwagon to mix up your softy-drink schedj. Finally, foodwise, when a couple of customers told me gleefully they’d be grabbing “awesome Japanese hot-dogs” for dinner, I had to check out Hotto Doggu which is definitely a must-visit for food on the go. My ‘Volcano’ spicy sausage topped with Yakuniku ramen was a quirkily excellent reverse-dessert following a Ben & Jerry’s sundae binge spawned from the aforementioned 4/20 hang.

I’ve really got to thank people for reading at this stage, and their kind feedback. Having spent most of my English degree loosely imagining a career in journalism I proceeded not to write a word or read even a page of fiction in my 5 years of hardcore hospitality. This warm-up blogging has been a great rediscovery - despite the hand-cramp - and worthwhile tool in mentally processing my experience. Now I’ve got the bug, I’m embarking on the industry-focussed journalism aspect of my business, for which I’ll be writing more disciplined commentary, think-pieces and reviews on the Food & Drink sector, for the benefit locals and tourists alike. Much as each of these articles contains a Netflix recommendation, my goal is always to get people out and about tasting new things and talking about it. I’m looking forward to doing that myself on a daily basis for the foreseeable future! Did anyone notice the over-abundance of alliteration in this one? It just happened. 
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My first day here, I was told by a friend “people talk about the weather a lot here” by which she didn’t mean the locals have a penchant for small-talk, but rather it’s often so extreme here it would be weirder NOT to talk about it. Today is the first real day of rain I’ve seen; an absolute deluge. It’s snowed 3-4 inches a day multiple times without derailing anybody’s routine, and the temperature has fluctuated between -10 and 16oC this weekend. Terraces have been enthusiastically whacked up in from of any forward-thinking bar-restaurant, and yet I can still ski 90 minutes away on Sunday! Though it might not sound so, I’m finding it infinitely preferable to London for one reason…it’s so rarely grey. I’m a bit of a sunflower, touched with a little Seasonal Affective Disorder like I suspect we all are, even if I try hard to maintain a certain metaphorical ray of sunshine persona, so give me -12oC with clear blue skies any day.
This does make it all the more shocking however that the level of homelessness here far exceeds that of my homeland (there you go, I’ve finally found something that’s worse here). I wouldn’t be surprised if Montréal alone has more rough sleepers than the entirety of the UK. It’s no San Francisco, which is by far the most out of hand I’ve ever seen that problem, but a 10 minute walk to the shops might bring 3-4 demands/pleas, especially if a tube station is en route. I don’t have a solution, however.

Other than the weather, I’ve also been warned “everyone cares about hockey”. Along with my desire to fit in the aforementioned ski before the end of the season, I also resolved to get a taste of Canada’s favourite sport, and so grabbed myself a ticket, solo, to the penultimate game at the Bell Centre as the Montréal Canadiens (yes…) welcomed league best Tampa Bay Lightning (infinitely superior to the Milton Keynes team of the same name that I enjoyed on mum’s whim this Boxing Day) with the season on the line! It turned out to be a phenomenal first exposure to the NHL, as the HABs (no idea, not an acronym according to the screaming fan I asked next to me) in front of a full house, vanquished Tampa in a 4-2 comeback. Now I wasn’t quite as impressed by the facilities as the San Diego Padres baseball stadium - an absolute craft beer and street-food paradise - but the lights were bright, the speakers were turned up to eleventy-stupid and the national anthems were belted out with such vigour that I resolved not to return without having learned the words. The atmosphere was electric, but unlike the English football world, in which racism, homophobia and general spoiling for a fight often lends the noise, this arena replaced mouth-foaming aggression with a general competitive enthusiasm and getting behind the team. That said, I haven’t actually seen any black or Asian hockey players thus far…

Yet further to my cultural self-education, predominantly in an attempt to understand this tricky accent, rather than some desire to really get the to anthropological soul of the populous, I’ve cracked on with what little Quebecois content is available on Netflix. While Gaz Bar Blues is very much in the French art-house existential misery vein, both Patrick Huart (already one of my favourite actors!) vehicles have been dynamite. Bon Cop Bad Cop seems somewhat of an institution…a cross-border buddy-cop action-comedy focussing on a hockey-themed murderer. It’s both entertaining in it’s on right and insightful into cultural relations (or stereotypes) between this French-speaking province and Canada at large. Starbuck – loosely based on the true story of a prolific sperm donor and his numerous offspring’s legal quest to reveal the identity of their genetic father – really touched me! Huart is a tour de force, the flawed heart of a feel-good film with some added emotional punch, which ultimately pushed me over the line into applying to volunteer at a local youth mentoring association. I’m now about 10% more proficient in deciphering the super-nasal, quasi-blue-collar dialect, but I’ve got a way to go!

The French impact naturally extends to the cuisine, and while globalisation makes all world foods omnipresent in any first world city, I’m very much enjoying the prevalence of tartare de boeuf, I have a delicious pain au chocolat most mornings, and if anyone wants to check out the sheer absurdity of classic French x North American mashups i.e. creamy, meaty, vinous indulgence, I’d usher you to Anthony Bourdain’s (rest in peace) Parts Unknown episode on Quebec….mouth-watering and sickening in equal measure. Poutine, however, is all conquering. My bar does a hearty portion drenched in beer-gravy, with 5 potential toppings including pulled pork and smoked meat,  but the Pouti-flette (tartiflette bacon and cream hybrid) at Brewpub Brouhaha this week took the title of best so far. Lucky I’ve has slightly fewer heavy nights of late, as it’s excruciatingly difficult to turn down on a cold, hangover day! Honourable mention too, goes to the falafel entrée at Pub BreWskey in the vieux port, and to the beautiful brunchy snacks at September Café impressively maintaining substance with style.

Naturally my beer tour continues as I show my face around the neighourhoods, and indeed ask new friends to introduce me to their favourite watering holes. This later technique yielded the week’s best beer, as a girl from work, passionate herself about tasting the best of the best, took me up to Rosemont where Brouhaha’s ‘Sergent Ripin’ & ‘Saison Voatsiperifery’ impressed me a great deal. Mabrasserie, a successful co-op of which the former is a member, also offered a tasting of four beer based hot sauces made on site, of which the coffee stout version tickled me the most. I was also kindly lent a smashing beer book “Les Saveurs Gastronomique de la Biere – Gendron & Thibault” which, if they haven’t done it already, I might offer to translate, as to do so like I’m doing right now just for educational purposes, is pure delight. I’ve also, peculiarly, drunk more Jameson’s this week than cumulatively in my life hitherto…people just love shots here. Bartender to bartender, bartender to guest and vice-versa, neighbouring bar staff! God forbid the Canadiens score 8 in a game and our “Hockey Shots” drop to 25c. As if to prove my point, as I hand-write this article in my notebook, a bartender I met on day 2 at Loic in St Henri (who on that day gave me and my friend shots as thanks for recommending him beer books) has just entered this bar on the other side of town, recognised me and…you guessed it…sent over a Jameson’s with a rogue-ish grin…it’s endless. I might have to start a counter-culture where a 5oz galopin of savagely strong beer becomes the new shooter of choice!
So another week down, into the grind of work and simultaneously a conscious ramping up of social activity and friend-seeking, the novelty is far from wearing off and my “working holiday” visa is living up to it’s name. Book your dates to visit ASAP friends, I’m plotting a hell of a welcome tour.
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Trois semaines ont passées très vite, je me sens déjà chez moi et j'ai trouvé un emploi! Après avoir fait quinze jours de ce que j'appellerais du travail dure (bien que ce ne puisse pas sembler être le cas à quiconque regarde) en étudiant français dans les cafés le matin, faisant une tournée des bars le soir et être tout gentil avec des employeurs potentiels. Ma déclaration de mission était toujours à chercher un travail de serveur dans un bar – celui qui se spécialise en bière artisanale bien sûr – afin de m'intégrer dans la scène de bière, se faire des amis et des contacts professionnels pour ma société de conseil et évidemment gagner un salaire. Après quatre jours de formation à Le Saint Bock, je crois que j'ai décrochée le jack-pot. C'est un microbrasserie/bar qui sert une quantité inépuisable des bières expérimentales brasées sur place et importées de Québec et du monde. Le personnel est très patient et chaleureux; je ne suis pas sûr si j’aurais réagi aussi positivement à « un expert de bière qui parle français respectable » comme j’étais présenté sur le groupe Facebook. Elles sont aussi mignonnes ce qui n'est pas évidemment nécessaire mais c'est un bonus quand même…Les gérants sont cool, l'environnement de travail et les clients en plus sont presque exclusivement francophone et j'aurai la possibilité de travailler les festivals de bière au cours de l'été ce qui devrait me permettre semer les grains beaucoup avec des autres brasseries. Je m’engage à travailler l’été entier dans le rôle de « gérant de plancher » en vue de réexaminer quand le soleil disparaitra, quand j’espère gagner dans une certaine mesure via drink-quality.com! Pour être honnête, après juste quatre équipes de formation du service, les deux ou je parlais cinq heures consécutivement de français, je me sens fucking génial a propos de comment les choses s’annoncent si tôt.

Quelques observations de mon nouveau domicile : d'abord et pertinent au travail susmentionné, c'est impossible de ne constate pas la différence énorme en culture de service. Les serveurs ici gagnent un pourboire minimum de quinze pourcents sur chaque facture, souvent beaucoup plus. Ainsi, n'importe où j'ai visité j'ai été salué et assis avec un sourire, servis complètement et témoignée de nombreux exemples ou le personnel se dépasse pour moi et les autres clients. Hier, un gars de mon café habituel Lili & Oli a insisté que j'emprunte un livre de poésie pour apprendre en manière plus divers, et la fille que dirige ma gym n'a pas encore pris un cent lorsque je démarre mon compte bancaire, seulement basée sur la confiance. Ceci n'arriverait jamais dans la culture « ne ferez pas confiance à personne, suspectez tout le monde du mal » de Londres. En fait c'est assez difficile de vérifier si je suis très chanceux en rencontrant des individus excellents ou si tout cela est symptomatique d'une culture en meilleure santé. Tout le monde est payé plus et travail moins en général, alors c'est quelque peu un scénario de « la poule et de l'œuf » si on compare les deux villes. Est-ce que les serveurs sous-payés et surchargés de travail à Londres méritent de gagner salaire minimum et rien comme pourboire par conséquent du service terrible globale? Ou est-ce que les anglais ne laissent pas un pourboire à d'un manque de respect endémique et profondément enraciné pour une industrie qui est en réalité le moyen des vies sociales des Londoniens? J'ai de nombreux éditoriaux en moi sur la myriade de façons dans lequel le système au Royaume-Uni est cassé (attendez jusqu'à Brexit pour vraiment voir ce que va arriver quand la colonne vertébrale des travailleurs immigrés et peu apprécié est forcé à jeter l'éponge) mais ce n'est pas le moment.
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C'est toujours le moment, heureusement, de discuter de la bouffe et les boissons. On m'a rappelé par ma propre révérence de ma nouvelle ville que je suis devenu déséquilibré. Cependant, je viens de manger un sandwich scandaleusement farci au viande fumée, acheté a l'iconique Schwartz Deli (photo attachée) et franchement je suis au paradis. Les bagels, aussi, sont quelque chose d'une spécialité de Montréal. J'ai été recommandé deux ou trois « meilleurs bagel au Montréal » jusqu'à ce moment et mon expérience de St Viateur Bagel Shop était assez spécial. Entourés de fours rugissants et les sacs de farines empilé à six pieds, on m'a donné un sac en papier des bagues brulants et frais, a dit d'aller te faire foutre a dehors et hors du chemin. Je les ai appréciés sur un banc avec le Philadelphia...Réellement seulement être capable d'en commander une n'importe où comme plat d'accompagnement est incroyable. La zone de la ville d'où je n'ai pas s'écarter, le Plateau Mont Royal est similaire d'un East London français, dont Mile End équivaut à peu près Shoreditch (pour l'instant avec moins de cons) et ainsi le monde de café indépendant est fort. Voyez attaché seulement un exemple de l'art de rue abondant ce qu'on trouve là-bas. Beaucoup de Montréalers travaillent a distance, donc leur besoin de Wi-fi rapide et servi par une pléthore de cafés origine-unique-Guaté-ragueyenne-noix-et-abricots-montagnes-brumeuses-roti. Je n'ai vu aucun des « flat white » alors il faut conclure qu'il n'est pas un vrai style de café, idiots prétentieux anglais.

Suite à mon article précèdent, je vois beaucoup d'expérimentation au monde de bière, mais sans la chute de la qualité ce qui l'accompagne souvent. J'accuserais les brasseries anglaises d'essayer de courir avant de pouvoir ramper, en fournissant quarante nouveaux styles et collabos conçu pour le 1% des geeks les plus hauts et les médias sociaux pendant leur première année, tous tandis que leur IPA principal explose des cannettes dans les caves autour du pays et goûte diffèrent chaque fois qu'on l'essai. Ici a l'inverse, on trouvera peut-être deux ou trois blondes populaires, à côté de dix à quinze curiosités de bonnes factures. Les bières brunes brassées avec du beurre d'arachide et framboise, les saisons de l'herbe de bison sentant fortement de la tarte aux pommes de McDonald's et en plus – grâce à la légalisation de l'année prochaine – un nombre croissant des exemples aromatisés avec de Cannabis (sans Cannabinoïdes) qui sentent quant à moi un peu du gingembre, du persil et l'anis faible. L’assemblage et le vieillissement en barrique sont très à la mode, et la rousse et un favori de la foule. Une brasserie éminente Dieu du Ciel! A reçu la Journée Péché Mortel pour que célébrer leur stout impérial phare en plus de dix variants, ce qui était un cadeau génial.

Pour le moment, je suis très bien installé. L’incertitude qui est arrivée à cause d’un manque d’un emploi et maison est maintenant replacée par un inconfort plus agréable provoqué de mon besoin naturel à devenir super-impressionnant au boulot. Je suis confiant que comme normal si je travaille extrêmement dur (quelque chose avec qui je n’ai pas jamais mal) tout ce que j’espère va se produire. Merci à Astrid pour m’avoir prêté son appartement ces trois semaines dernières, je te rembourserai en amitié et en cuisine!