RESTAURANT LESSONS LEARNED
Lesley Chesterman’s farewell, Part 2
This is the second instalment of a three-part farewell by Montreal Gazette restaurant critic Lesley Chesterman, looking back at the people and places she encountered and lessons learned during 20 years on the beat. “This couldn’t be the right place,” I said in disbelief. It was the spring of 2000, and the restaurant I was standing in front of was Tokyo Sukiyaki. “Oh yes it is,” said one of my dining companions, who had recommended I review what was then Montreal’s oldest Japanese restaurant. Cynical as all get-out, I entered the old house, which had definitely seen better days. We were greeted by an elderly, kimono-clad lady. She asked that we remove our shoes, then handed us plastic slippers — red for me, black for the men — before leading us down a dark corridor. Shuffling along, I marvelled at the surroundings, complete with little red bridges criss-crossing a rock-lined stream that meandered through the room toward a small bar. We were shown into one of the 15 closed tatami rooms, where dark red lanterns lined the top of the walls. I couldn’t see any other diners, but I could hear faint chatting around me. Was this a restaurant, I wondered, or a Quentin Tarantino movie? Predicting a bleak outcome, I ordered a few dishes, rubbed my hands in a steaming towel and shot many an evil eye at my friend, before storming out to the pay phone in the corridor to make a reservation at another restaurant. While I was on hold, a kimono-clad waitress slipped past me carrying platters of glistening chicken yakitori and golden shrimp tempura. Suddenly optimistic, I hung up the phone and raced past the waitress to our cubicle, where we enjoyed a, shall we say, unexpectedly delicious Japanese meal. If ever there was a case for not
Along with Toqué!, Initiale was one of the first restaurants to convince me that Quebec gastronomy had the potential to become world-class.
judging a book by its cover, it was Tokyo Sukiyaki, where the campy decor and top-quality cuisine were completely at odds with the seedy impression the restaurant conveyed from the outside. Lesson learned! That epiphany happened decades ago, and there have been countless eye-opening meals since: many good, as many bad, some frustrating, others life-affirming, a few mind-blowing, several deathly dull, and more than I care to admit that wiped out my bank balance with the push of a button. Over the course of 20 years, I’ve written more than 1,000 reviews. Entering with preconceived notions is the worst way a critic can approach a restaurant, and some of my best meals were enjoyed in restaurants where I didn’t have a clue what to expect. Two occasions come to mind when I entered completely neutral but exited utterly floored. The first was at Quebec City’s Initiale in the fall of 2000. Chef/owner Yvan Lebrun and maître d’/co-owner Rolande Leclerc served up what remains my most gastronomic experience in Quebec, featuring pure, wellthought-out flavours, masterful cooking techniques and a serene atmosphere. A highlight was the cheese course, which included some 15 specimens from this province. Along with Toqué!, Initiale was one of the first restaurants to convince me that Quebec gastronomy had the potential to become world-class. Fifteen years later, another unexpected newcomer, Le Mousso, solidified that impression. I entered Le Mousso expecting sparks, but got fireworks — not only because the food was so delicious, but because chef Antonin Mousseau-Rivard had chosen the risky artistic route at a time when even Montreal’s top chefs were leaning casual. I always favour meals that provide a revelation, which was the case at Le Latini in 2000. While lapping up the restaurant’s famed tomato, veal and porcini risotto, I finally understood the greatness of this classic — and often poorly conceived — Italian dish. Made from scratch and presented in a large copper pot at the table, theirs was a triumph. The rice was firm yet creamy, the veal was tender, the tomato flavour was rich and the seasoning was bang-on. To this day, it’s still the best risotto I’ve ever tasted. Restaurant meals mark many moments in our lives, and I cherish memories of the first dates I enjoyed at Laloux and the countless celebrations at L’Express. Then there were all the birthdays — my fondest memory being of my 30th birthday at Les Caprices de Nicolas in 1997. I still recall the late chef Nicolas Jongleux’s soigné plate presentations, dazzling technique and grasp of flavours.
A disciple of nouvelle cuisine legends Georges Blanc and Alain Chapel, Jongleux turned out the most sophisticated menu that night, including a choux pastry appetizer, a dreamy Béarnaise with the meat main and pommes Pont-Neuf (think oversized french fries) gingerly stacked with silver tongs by the waiter into a small tower on my plate. This was probably the last time I saw tuxedoed waiters in a Montreal dining room. And there were all the little details: beautiful bread baskets, cushy washrooms, tapestry pillows lining the banquettes. What a treat it was to dine at that restaurant, unmatched to this day for class and elegance. Les Caprices was never haughty, which was hardly the situation at the many Michelin-starred restaurants I’ve frequented. More often than not at these establishments, the waiters are unfriendly, sommeliers are patronizing, and the food — seemingly assembled by elves holding rulers to make sure every sculpted vegetable is symmetrical — makes me long for a sloppy joe. As much as I admire the mad cooking skills on display, the tension and snobbishness of such institutions tend to wear down one’s enthusiasm — especially when the bill arrives, because when you eat at the world’s top restaurants, you really (really!) pay for it. Though I’ve been one of the few who are lucky enough to have the cost of review meals covered by my employers, when I was off-duty at those lofty restaurants, I picked up the tab. And more often than not, I walked away feeling dumb for having paid so much for nothing more than — let’s be honest here — dinner. I remember the overwhelming dread when receiving bills at places like Astrance in Paris, reputed to be one of the more affordable three-star Michelin restaurants. We ate and drank like royalty, but when the bill rang in at $450 per person, the mood shifted from celebratory to morose. And that’s just one of many such examples. (The lesson, obviously, has yet to be learned!) Truth is, even though restaurant reviewing was my chosen career, I couldn’t afford to eat at the world’s best restaurants that today are reserved for the super wealthy. I recall standing outside Anne-Sophie Pic’s restaurant in Valence, France, reading the menu, doing the math and figuring the bill for two would easily amount to $1,000. We headed to her far cheaper — and still excellent — bistro next door. I also began to notice that as exciting as those luxurious, multi-course menus read, they had become harder and harder to handle physically. A few years back, I ate a mind-blowing omakase menu at Park, with each dish prepared by Antonio Park right in front of me. I think I ate every fish under the sun that night, and when I was ready to keel over, Park was just getting going, following up with foie gras, aged beef loin and a medley of toro offerings. The man was on fire, and everything was so good I could hardly ask him to stop. It took me three days to recover from that feast, as was the case with every visit to Cabane à sucre Au Pied de Cochon, where I never managed to get through even half the meal. During a marathon dinner at La Chronique, I had to get up at the midpoint of my fivehour meal to go for a walk. When I reviewed Le Vin Papillon in the company of two wine writers, the eating and drinking lasted for six hours. When the meal ended, I actually couldn’t stand up. For all I remember, I may have crawled out the door on all fours. Dining one-on-one with visiting food writers has always been a treat, but there is something about eating with a tableful of them that brings out the ugly. I was once invited by Tourism Montreal to dine with a group of European journalists at Au Pied de Cochon. When chef Martin Picard came to greet the table, a woman blurted out: “We want to eat light!” Picard smiled and replied: “Then you’re at the wrong restaurant.”
Another night found me dining with Parisian journalists at Toqué! during the Montréal en lumière festival. Invited by festival organizers to cover the event, the Parisians had spent a few days touring the Montreal food scene, of which they enjoyed nothing. They told me our smoked meat wasn’t authentic, our restaurants were mediocre and the wonderful chocolate shop they visited was “banal.” Holding myself back from leaping at them across the table, I argued, rolled my eyes hard and eventually threw in the towel. During another edition of Montréal en lumière, I joined a group of Québécois journalists at Toqué! to enjoy a tasting menu by Spanish chef Xavier Pellicer. There was no missing the excess saltiness in dish after dish. At the height of the meal, one especially pompous man clinked his glass, stood up and declared in all seriousness: “Messieurs, mesdames, tonight we are experiencing a great culinary experiment: salt used as an ingredient instead of a condiment!” I was surprised, yet they all applauded. When the meal was over, I asked Pellicer about the salting. He answered: “Was it really? When I get nervous, I tend to over-salt.” So many flashbacks come from nights at Toqué!, the epicentre of high gastronomy in Montreal for decades. For its 10th anniversary in 2003, I was invited to a sixcourse extravaganza paired with some of the world’s costliest bubbly from the house of Dom Pérignon. Seated at a table of local wine writers, we were treated to an unbelievable menu featuring luxurious ingredients like oysters, foie gras, princess scallops, lobster and Ossetra caviar. While I sat there marvelling over a plate of sautéed spring strawberries with rhubarb, the wine writers rambled on endlessly about the 1992 rosé Champagne with which it was served. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing: not one of them mentioned the food! Some of my regular dining companions could also wreak havoc. For the most part, everyone behaved, but there were exceptions — like the time two friends were arguing and one eventually snapped, stood up and clocked the other one over the head with a menu. I was mortified and suggested he take a taxi home. The only problem: the restaurant was in Oka, and the fare came close to $100. While reviewing, I’ve witnessed fights, tears, breakups and confessions, and not just at my table. At a much-loved Outremont restaurant, I saw the chef storm out of the kitchen and right out the front door. Forty-five minutes later, the owner emerged to serve our meal, which I figure he prepared. Chaotic moments aside, restaurant meals can also provide great comfort. When my first son was born, he was kept in the intensive care unit for two weeks, where I spent most of my time in the parents’ room sleeping on a couch. Since I didn’t take maternity leave, I embraced the distraction of going out on a review dinner, and chose to drown my sorrows in rich French food at Les Halles for a few hours before heading back to the NICU. When my father passed away two years ago, we planned a family dinner after his funeral at Moishes. Despite our profound sadness, we feasted hard that night — in an effort, I believe, to fill the deepest of voids. During the 1998 ice storm, my then-husband and I moved from friend’s house to friend’s house in search of electricity and company. One dark night while walking down the icy streets of the Main, we were surprised to see the lights on at Globe and went inside for dinner. I recall a very young and far less famous David McMillan showing us to a banquette and serving us a perfect meal of roasted chicken with mashed potatoes, dishing up the food himself at our table. That cheered us up no end, as did several breakfasts at Beautys during those grim January weeks. Whenever I hear the term “comfort food,” those meals always come to mind. So, with all those dinners under my belt, you might wonder whether one ranks as the best. The critic in me would say dinner at the Joël Robuchon restaurant at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas back in 2009, which featured a plethora of sublime ingredients transformed by some of the most skilled chefs on the planet. It was utterly flawless, and I recall taking notes and pictures between every jaw-dropping sip and bite. And yet, when it comes to sheer deliciousness, a meal enjoyed during a press trip to Greece in 2014 quashed the nouvelle cuisine perfection at every turn. The feast began at 11 p.m. at the Gavrilis Tavern in the village of Kouvaras, a 40-minute drive south of Athens. Along with a few sommeliers and wine writers, I was seated with winemaker Vassili Papagiannakos and his wife, Tonia, of Domaine Papagiannakos. Our dinner began with a flurry of small plates, including grilled peppers, stuffed vine leaves, Greek salad and oliveoil-fried french fries. We dipped pieces of crusty bread into tzatziki. We sipped the taverna’s homemade retsina. Mid-meal, we gathered around a butcher block in the open kitchen, where we marvelled as a lamb, reared by the tavern’s owners, was expertly sectioned into chops, legs and shoulder cuts, which were then salted and grilled in a metal basket over open coals. As instructed, we picked up the long and delicate lamb chops with our fingers and munched our way through to the bone. The combination of grilled lamb fat, salty meat, dried oregano and the garlicky side dishes with the retsina was intoxicating. It was a profoundly authentic meal, and never have I seen people so proud of what they were serving. In a word: heaven. Honestly, either of those meals would rank as the best. But choosing the ultimate dining experience is a futile exercise: as any true restaurant lover knows, there’s always something new on the horizon. Next week: Lesley Chesterman’s final Montreal Gazette column.