Crashing into bed around 10:30 PM PST, I awoke briefly some 5 hours later around 3:30 AM, then continued dozing until 5:45 AM. Although still slightly jet-lagged, I had managed to muster a grand total of seven hours of sleep. Sunny blue skies were observed outside - a utterly different scene from the day prior. However, these pleasant conditions were not predicted to last past 9 AM. Moreover, temperatures were distinctly cooler than usual, hovering about the low teens and well below the seasonal average for early June. Making my way to towards Richmond-Brighouse once more, I found dew from the persistent showers of the day before and an overall dampness that had descended onto the city. There was a tranquility that hovered about the quiet morning hours, detected in the hushed rustle of leaves against the bus shelter and the hums of passing vehicles. Rush hour had yet to begin. For the first time ever in my years of Translink usage, I encountered fare inspectors just beyond the fare gates. The uniform-clad duo operated in a similar fashion to GO Transit's Revenue Protection crew members, verifying fare payment on Compass cards with tap devices.
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At around 5 AM, I grudgingly peeled away the covers. Moving slowly, I readied myself for the imminent flight, stuffing everything and anything I could possibly need into my luggage. My browsing partner showed up on time, hands placed on waist while I scurried about the house, gazing upon me with a knowing look. "You're late." "Ahhhh!!" I hastily grabbed chargers I had forgotten to pack, then bid farewell to Larry, Mr. Buttons, and Mini Sulley. Around 6 AM, we'd depart for the airport. As expected, the highway was as serene as could be. Naturally, this didn't last long. Once inside the terminal, I learned of the minimal buffer I had allocated for myself. Between weaving through crowds, printing baggage tags, and queuing for carry-on luggage size checks, I'd be sent to the international side for screening. There, nearly 20 minutes would pass as I waited for my bags to be inspected. Increased security meant that, beyond laptops, tablets and even cameras would be pulled aside. Many other fliers experienced similar frustrations with empty water bottles, artwork wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, and small electronics. After finally being permitted to take back my belongings, I ran back to the domestic gates, arriving just in time for boarding. My neighbour arrived within seconds of me, comfortably seating herself in the middle of the section and hanging her denim jacket on the hook adjacent to the screen. She was exceptionally pleasant and smiley - just what I needed after a morning of chaos. Breakfast was served within the first hour of takeoff. Having consumed nothing thus far, I happily munched away at the fluffy omelette, chorizo sausage, and semi-soggy hash browns. Fresh fruit and warm bread rolls with butter and strawberry jam also constituted lovely accents. As far as beverage choices, my go-to of cold brew was, as anticipated, unavailable. However, the flight attendant was more than willing to combine hot brew with ice in a ceramic mug to emanate the effect of iced black coffee.
In spite of the continuous rainfall that would grace the city for the remainder of the day, I was determined to make like a Vancourite and brave the trip to Aberdeen. The bus to Brighouse pulled up to the shelter shortly as I arrived. A fellow backpack-wielding resident had waited alongside me - proof that precipitation would not be sufficient in halting daily operations. Richmond's Chicha San Chen had been on my radar since a local food enthusiast informed me of its opening. There was a distinct determination to confirm whether it fared better than the Burnaby outpost and Toronto's compact rendition on the edge of Chinatown. The interior was largely reminiscent of the Burnaby location, featuring artificial shrubbery on the ceiling and a large mirror to give the illusion of depth. Seating was minimal, spanning no more than a single round table by the entrance. This outpost was slightly smaller than Metro Vancouver's first location and appeared to focus on takeout and food delivery orders - reasonable in consideration of its proximity to Richmond's primary transit hub, nearby condos, and Richmond Centre. Two girls that had disembarked the 410 bus with me followed my footsteps, eventually reaching the cashier before me as I paused for photos. Approximately four staff members could be seen behind the counter, each adopting different roles as cashier, barista, and inventory stockers. In contrast to the downtown Toronto location, there was no lineup whatsoever. Production speed was relatively consistent, for the operating parameters of the tea brewing apparatus were fixed. Despite the backlog of drink orders and sluggishness of the girls before me, I received my Ding Dong Oolong Milk Tea with Konjac in a matter of minutes. The beverage was delightful and as refreshing as could me. That said, its selling price was astounding: even at just 5% tax, the drink rang in at around the same as Toronto's 13% HST, indicating a higher base price. Striding across the bus loop towards the SkyTrain platform, I evaded a sizable political protest enforcing that "Taiwan is not China". This topic was long considered taboo back home and actively avoided in work situations. Most amusing about this stunt were Caucasian participants calling out the protest chants in muffled Mandarin. In a matter of minutes, I arrived at Aberdeen. Northbound trains enabled a direct connection to Aberdeen Square; meanwhile, southbound trains from Waterfront required exiting the station entirely and routing into the Aberdeen buildings at ground level. As per tradition, I desired nothing more than a post-arrival lunch - albeit a late one - of Saboten from the food court. Katsu sandwiches had been pre-packaged in reusable white plastic containers and positioned by the cashier for easy access. This equated to a non-existent wait time and near-immediate gratification. Sliced into thirds, the sandwich embodied the ideal proportions of crispy, tender katsu and fluffy, crust-less shokupan with smothered with a thin layer of tangy katsu sauce.
I happily munched away at the specimen, drawing sips of my Chicha milk tea in the process. In contrast to my drink of choice, ten dollars for a katsu sando no longer seemed pricey. Montréal Mode | DAY 4: (Pt. 1) Christmas Day, avril Supermarché Santé + Pre-Flight Mocktails12/25/2023 Since learning to strategically schedule medication intake periods, restful slumber could be attained. In fact, I was rewarded on the last night of our stay with the fewest interruptions. Alas, periods of inactivity would cease once the alleviating effects of the drugs had subsided. Breakfast would comprise of Nespresso again. Incorporated into the morning meal was the Pistachio and Cranberry Brioche from Première Moisson. Pistachio bits were concentrated on the top of the pastry, while dried cranberry bits sheathed within its coils. The round was surprisingly moist - damp even - but offered minimal flavour payout. The cross-section was dense, yet not overly satiating. Generally speaking, the purchase was strictly passable. My visit to W would not be complete without slipping into the soft, terry logo-embellished robe. While I'd be maintaining a safe distance from alcohol during the trip, it was impossible to resist flaunting the acclaimed vials of vin and vodka and gleaming snakeskin accomodations. Christmas Day was readied me for a city-wide closure of shops and eateries. However, I decided to try my luck anyway by exploring the streets surrounding Victoria Square before our scheduled departure. For the first time in four days, my soujourn was blessed with sunshine and blue skies. Obtaining cheese curds assumed the final mission of the trip. Google Maps informed of two plausible grocery sources, the first being Le Beau Marché on Rue Notre-Dame. Rounding the corner of McGill Street, I soon learned of the drastic difference of tourist-ready brick laneways and downtown side streets. In sharp contrast to the streets previously perused, Rue Notre-Dame was positively filthy. This section appeared to be utilized primarily by locals, either those who had just completed an exercise class or were walking their dogs before lunch. The standard local was a dark-haired Caucasian, and one that spoke French fluidly. Besides the obvious residents, the only other demographic roaming the district were minorities - vacationers in the city. Le Beau Marché was discovered closed upon arrival. I decided to continue roaming, though there wasn't much in operation. My steps was halted when a customer exited from Couche-Tard, a 24-hour convenience store with a red owl logo. I stumbled into the store out of curiosity, finding beer, a coffee station, and even hot snacks of pretzels and chicken burgers. Equipped with the awareness that Ubers may arrive well in advance of one's readiness, we made sure to position ourselves accordingly by the entrance before placing any in-app calls. The wait time was longer than anticipated, but we still managed a response within five minutes. Our driver pulled up in a spotless Sedan. He grimaced slightly towards the amount of baggage at the curb, but managed the task with minimal gripes with the assistance of hotel staff. Save my periodic coughing, the ride into Dorval was basically silent. English did not appear to be the driver's preferred language of communication. Only upon arriving at the terminal did we witness his altercation with airport security regarding drop-off at a depressed curb. The vast portion of my Downtown Montréal observations did not extend to Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport. Even upon entering, it was evident that the facility was inept in terms of queue management and passenger flow organization. After baggage drop off, we were required to navigate to the opposite end of the airport to go through security screening. The lineups were managed exceptionally poorly, with passengers gestured left and right through. The airport itself was smaller than expected, possibly the tiniest of all the domestic airports I've ever set foot within. The security screening setup appeared very primitive: line separators positioned at random, feeding people towards the security bins at 90-degree angled turns. Moreover, the area between the after-security shops and screening was delineated by just another row of those line separators. But, beyond its compact scale, the utterly abominable attitude of the screening staff left the most memorable impression. There was one metal detector gate and one full-body scanner. Upon approaching the two, one of the staff gestured to wait for the scanner. Known as the tardier choice of the two, I swiftly slid through the adjacent metal detector instead as it opened up. The action was met with despicable attitude from the screening staff, a young male with long, curly strands. "Miss, didn't I tell you to wait over there?" I looked at him in surprise, taken back by his unwarranted haughty attitude. "So can I go now?" noting that the gate did not beep. But he decided to press further. "Did I tell you or not?" "I'll just walk through again." This time, the machine beeped. The staff insisted I remove my scarf for inspection, as "my neck was covered". But sheer removal of the scarf wasn't sufficient. He wanted to touch the scarf with evidently filthy gloves. A female member of staff noticed my concern and offered to inspect the scarf with new gloves. I wasn't willing, for I saw no issue with aversion towards others touching my personal belongings without valid reason. At this point, another member of staff decided to intervene. The second male aggressively pulled aside the plastic barriers and pointed to the snaking lineup from which I had come. He threatened, "You can go back outside and line up and come back when you want to cooperate." The words being spouted were pure nonsense to me, as if I was being targeted for no reason. I simply couldn't comprehend it, and felt even less inclined to oblige. When I walked through the gate a second time, a manager - male, of course - asked for the scarf. I handed it over to the female staff, who inspected it and handed it back without issues. "Oh, now you want to give it" screeched the aggressive one, like an immature high schooler. Next came the issue of boots. Technically, I had no issues removing the boots and passing them through the gates. But the manager and his possé had other plans in mind. "Hand him the boots! Give them to him!" The manager directed. The boots were repositioned from the near the gate to in front of the staff, who ultimately declared that he "wasn't going to bend down to get (my) boots". "No matter." I thought, and swung the boots onto a nearby table at waist height. The men did not budge. I wasn't going to oblige. This game of nerves and time-wasting wouldn't be ending with disrespect on my part. The female staff took the boots, conducted her check and handed them back to me. Putting them back on, I glared at the trio of imbeciles and spat, in my croaky voice, "What's your problem?!". "There's no problem." assured the manager. Though there clearly was. I departed the scene with rage swelling in my eyes, my overall airport and Montréal flying experience tainted. Similar to Ottawa, the racism was just was too apparent to deny. Dare I say that I experienced patriarchy firsthand as well. YUL was concluded not only smaller than any of the domestic airports I had visited in my numerous instances of national travel, but a lowly, despicable one with poorly designed elements. Even setting the security screening incident aside, I couldn't comprehend that absence of an open lounge/rest area, the positioning of washroom facilities at odd ends of the corridor, and the reason for U.S. connections to be situated after domestic screening procedures. Customer service levels witnessed at the in-airport eateries were also noticeably crude. I opted against the overpriced fare, taking to the corridor with disposable chopsticks to munch on leftovers accumulated over the past few days.
Our return flight was scheduled for 5 PM, just as our inbound trip had been. By the 4:15 PM mark, we had boarded the aircraft and comfortably assumed our seats. That said, a delayed departure would cause us to remain on the tarmac for at least fifty minutes more. Read Part 2 HERE ! The conception of a European city is one brimming with first-world pleasures: bread and bakeries, freshly-brewed coffee and intricate pastries, spacious pedestrian pathways, and streets upon streets of shopping galore. Montréal had answered to most of these indicators, with the exception of retail therapy. A handful of souvenir shops surrounded Notre-Dame, but only one stood out from the rest. Kurosity featured kitschy magnets of baguettes in paper bags as well as spinoffs of popular characters such as Minions and Dr. Seuss. Within the five-minute radius were at least four other gift shops, but their offerings on the tacky end of Canadiana and not exactly pertinent to the French-speaking city. Rue Saint-Paul west of St Laurent Blvd was paved in asphalt, facilitating the movement of vehicles. East of the intersection, leading towards Place Jacques-Cartier, were relatively level brick walkways utilized equally by pedestrians and vehicles.
Christmas Eve in foreign territory was an interesting experience. Year-end holidays often make for unpredictable exploration in local neighbourhoods, and Montréal, while situated in the outlier province of Québec, ultimately still resided in Canada. I had expected similar business operations given the national culture. This would mean waking earlier to maximize limited store hours. A good night's rest and a morning cup of joe were critical elements in facilitating the self-led journey. Breakfast would adopt the forms of a Coffee Bun from Pâtisserie Harmonie and Nespresso's Colombia brew. The former, being the last unit adorning the display case, had been procured on the basis of curiosity. Althought its somewhat indented surface wasn't entirely reminiscent of the plump, uniform coating of traditional Malaysia Coffee Roti, I had been eager to sample the specimen nonetheless. Each subsequent bite entailed more palatable revelations: a toasty, slightly bitter coffee-flavoured casing to start, then a spongy, gratifying interior, and, lastly, a wonderfully aromatic and indulgent centre of salted butter. The pleasurable primer of sustenance readied me for the day's upcoming activities. Bracing congestion, cough, and a terribly hoarse throat, I geared up in ahgase attire and headed towards the Metro. My objective of the trip was none other than trying St-Viateur's Montréal-style bagels. Of the bakery's Mile End and Mont-Royal locations, the latter was found more accessible by transit. As such, I boarded the Orange Line from Victoria Square once more, this time disembarking at Mont-Royal station instead. The neighbourhood was undoubtedly less affluent compared to the downtown district. Homelessness within the station was prominent from the moment of exit, where the train doors opened to reveal a man curled up next to a waste disposal bin on the ground. Hunched citizens hovered about as well - an indication of displacement. Heading eastward towards the pinned location, I passed a number of BIA banners. The setting reminded me of Yonge-Eglinton and Uptown Yonge: the wider sidewalks, mixture of franchises and local vendors, plethora of locals, and obviously irregular wanderers of the street. The buildings weren't very tall, however. (Toronto persists as the leader in high-rise developments, it appears.) The at-grade level of most buildings appeared to be allocated towards retail, while stairs led upwards towards residential units occupying the upper floors; most of these dwellings spanned three storeys or less. An interesting observation was the prevalence of bubble tea shops in a seemingly non-Asian community. A Gong Cha was spotted within seconds of striding upon Avenue Mont-Royal. Coming into view fairly quickly was St-Viateur Bagel. Similar to Schwartz's Deli, there were designated lineups for dine-in versus takeout customers. Again, these were unsigned queues, managed entirely by word of mouth of patrons and the occasional appearance from a member of staff. I was hardly perched beyond the doors of the bakery-café for ten minutes when the same member of staff, a middle-aged man with bilingual capabilities, ushered myself, as well as the couple behind, inwards. Occupying one section was a bustling dining area. It wasn't very large, though sufficed in seating and serving guests quickly. Branded merchandise lined the perimeter of the facility and several counters leading towards the utensil stand and dine-in cashier. At the very back was the store was an open preparation area: a substantial brick oven and flour-dusted work station. While inching towards the takeout cashier, it dawned upon me that St-Viateur strictly accepted payment in "Canadian cash or debit". Reluctant to leave the line in search of an ATM, I resorted to using debit, only to be questioned by the elderly man in a heavy French accent. The deafening interior of the space drowned out my already-croaking voice, contributing additional communication difficulties to the language barrier. Sweatshirts, canvas totes, seasonings, spreads, and even kitchen gadgets like cutting boards and knives could be found on offer. None were distinct nor economic enough to warrant purchase, thus I merely resolved to a purchase of three bagels: Plain, Rosemary & Salt, and Maple Apple. The trio set me back four dollars. They were inserted into a brown paper bag and handed to me as is. Known not to be without a carrying device, I summoned my black fabric tote for their storage as I continued to explore establishments in the vicinity. Continuing eastward revealed no further points of interest. While I prodded forward contemplating my next course of action, a bus appeared at the following intersection. Sundays and holidays are known low-frequency instances of public transit sightings; consequently, I dashed forwards with minimal hesitation. The vehicle brought back familiar faces encountered during my St-Viateur excursion. It also instilled awareness of USB charging ports near the single-seaters. Within minutes, I was back at Mont-Royal station, this time headed in the direction of the west terminus of Côte-Vertu. The wait was admittedly grueling, for it was constantly accompanied by homeless trekking up and down the platform, some engaging in conversation with innocent commuters - in French, of course. Also noted was the distant positioning the next train signage. Its contents were hardly legible to the naked eye unless zooming in for clarity. While I struggle to admit, TTC has always done signage better. Returning to the hotel, I unveiled my haul of carby circlets. Even at first glance, they were thinner than the typically uniform, dense rounds familiar to me. Their surface was textured, twisted at their connection points, and bore a unique sheen on both sides. The Rosemary & Salt variation was distinguished by its light layer of herby spears, while Maple Apple flecked with cinnamon and bite-sized pieces of dried apple flesh. Proceeding with the next item on the itinerary, I led the way to the underground access for Victoria Square. Place d'Armes was one subway stop away, or seven-ish minutes on foot. The station was larger than Victoria Square, offering street-level access points in all cardinal directions as well as internal connections to the adjacent commercial buildings. Appending to my previous observation regarding bubble tea spots, the intersection of Rue Saint-Antoine and Côte de la Place-d'Armes offered another friendly name: Don't Yell At Me. But the hip, colourful ambience of Yonge and Finch had been replaced with a classic exterior of stone architecture, a Stainless steel plaque, and, as expected, French descriptions. Generally speaking, prices are steeper than back home though, no matter Don't Yell At Me or the plethora of other chains spotted, such as Kung Fu, Chatime, Shuyi, CoCo, Presotea, and Real Fruit. Atop the uphill, interlock-paved walkway towards Place d'Armes was the festive art installation we had explored on our night of arrival. Continuing in that direction would lead us towards Notre-Dame Basilica of Montreal and the shops in the immediate proximity. Camouflaged within stone-tinted storefronts of the historic district was SSENSE, a high-fashion boutique that I had only ever invested from a virtual platform. Characterized by exposed concrete walls, tall glass windows, spotless metallic surfaces, and an impossibly lofty ceiling, the SSENSE store embodied five floors of one-of-a-kind apparel, footwear, and home décor displays. Positioned on the first and fifth floors were showrooms: designer attire, luxury beauty, handbags, and more. The second, third, and fourth floors were dedicated as fitting rooms, accessed only on a by-appointment basis by customers that had ordered products beforehand and visited for in-person try-on. Navigation between the floors was provided via a sluggish elevator or pristine stairwell with smooth railings and lacquered steps. The location of the boutique was admittedly odd, though was confirmed to draw the attention of numerous international (non-French-speaking) visitors. On the topmost floor of the building was a north-facing window offering a partially obstructed view of Notre Dame and the courtyard below. Read Part 2 HERE !
Read Part 1 HERE ! While the shops along Rue Saint-Paul swayed in the direction of further investigation, our visting window for Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal was gradually diminishing. Without dallying too much on the cobblestone laneways, we arrived at Chez Suzette around the 2:20 PM mark for a late lunch. Initially, I had been concerned about wait times, given the level of tourist foot traffic in the area. Though, once within the space, it was learned that seating was ample, for it spanned not one floor but the second and third levels above as well. Unaware of the existence of the upper floors, we had pointed in favour of a cozy spot near the entrance. In hindsight, the other dining quarters would have proved more comfortable, for gusts of chilly air would grace our presence with every swing of the door. From the low-key laminated menus to the smooth, lacquered table and woven chairs, the homey ambience was undeniably reminiscent of The Apricot Tree Café. That said, the assortment of offerings at Chez Suzette was far beyond what was capable of the suburban spot back home. Besides their signature selection of sweet and savoury crêpes, the establishment was also home to fondue sets and bistro fare such as salads and quiches. Of course, we hadn't specified the eatery for items outside their realm of expertise. The French Onion Soup had been noted in countless reviews, making it a no-brainer aspect of our order. In place of wines, coffee, and even hot chocolate, we opted for water. Cold fluids were presented in plastic cups (à la BR), while hot in lightbulb-shaped glasses like those used by Terroni. The choice was likely to promote steeping of lemon wedges - citrusy additions that were regrettably discarded with our request for cleaner, stain-free ceramic mugs. Approximately fifteen minutes would pass before the glorious arrival of the French Onion Soup. Beautifully golden all over with a torched surface, the starter already garnered extensive appeal from its visuals alone. The eatery hadn't skimped on cheese one bit! The stoneware vessel was wholly covered in the stringy, delectable goodness. But beyond its enticing appearance was the most scrumptious French Onion Soup to grace our tastebuds. Amazingly complex, the concoction offered heartiness in an unbelievably delectable broth. Undetectable was the excessive briny-ness of other similarly classified soups. Instead, Chez Suzette's rendition leaned towards the acidic side with two nicely submerged slices of baguette and softened bits of onion at the bottom of the ramekin. The abundance of quality cheese was also greatly appreciated, for the higher fat content (and lower percentage of starch-based stabilizer) enabled the topping to preserve its marvelously malleable consistency throughout the consumption process. Shared between us was the Suprême de Poulet Crêpe, a sizable envelope of chicken and sliced mushroom in a creamy Béchamel sauce. For the average person, half a crêpe may not have sufficed. Though, the single portion was more than adequate for those with small appetites. The wispy wrapper retained a certain degree of elasticity, contributing to its overall palatability. It was also fragrant, in sheer contrast to the doughy, flour-heavy sheets I had grown accustomed towards in the less European side of the country. We, or rather I, managed to deplete the spread before venturing off to our next stop. With various Christmas Mass sessions scheduled, Notre-Dame Basilica of Montréal had anticipated to be busy leading up to Christmas day. To facilitate entry into the space, tickets were secured online in advance of our visit. The decision was soon discovered a prudent one, for the queue for on-site ticket purchase was treacherous. A second adjacent lineup had intended to be used for those with QR code-based tickets. However, poor queue management - the first instance witnessed during the trip - caused spillage of one group of visitors into the other, consequently obscuring signage and hindering visitor flow. When we finally received acknowledgement from the staff, we were gestured through the white tent separating the doors of the church to its street-level access. Within a few footsteps, we came face to face with the landmark's brass and royal blue interior. Frankly, I wasn't sure what I had expected when entering the facility at a price of fifteen dollars per person. There was, in essence, a scarcity of points of interest beyond admiring the structural elements of the church interior. After marvelling at the spiraled stairwell and stately organs directly beneath the roof, I began to explore the perimeter of the space. Candles were positioned throughout, usually on tables before stained glass murals. It should be noted that these candles weren't merely for display, but served as potential charitable offerings priced between five and ten dollars. Pamphlets positioned near the entrance were also not complimentary. Prayers were labelled at two dollars a sheet and pamphlets in various languages at five. Notre-Dame was beautiful to behold, yet not in the remarkable or thought-provoking sense like art. During times of external frigidity, the bounty of benches would assume a solid respite from the cold. But, alas, there simply wasn't much else to do. Perhaps the destination would have assumed a highlight destination for those more appreciative of architecture, or even those in search of a serene space for reciting prayers. For me, it constituted a historical landmark for perusal, with little significance beyond tourism. Read Part 3 HERE !
Sleeping in a foreign environment is never easy for me. The ability to enter a realm of sound slumber is often challenging at home, but the condition usually worsens with jet lag in conjunction with a mediocre hotel like the Executive or the excruciating dryness of Executive Residency. The tranquil, pristine environment of W Montréal soothed with its clean, cloud-like blankets, yet not all stressors could be managed from the get-go. I mustered together a combined 5-6 hours of rest while coughing fitfully throughout the night. While still quite irritable at the 9 AM mark, it was deemed illogical to wriggle about unproductively. Swinging my feet onto the floor, I reached for the toothbrush, then the Tylenol. Breakfast would be consumed in the suite prior to departing for the day's adventures. The Nespresso machine offered a total of four complimentary pods: Italiano, Tokyo, Colombia, and Decaf. The shimmery sapphire packing of Tokyo was summoned for a mild awakening. The tongue-scalding formula would be paired with the Maple Almond Financier procured from Le Petit Dep late last evening. Our apprehension towards the café's remaining inventory persisted, and I bit into the pastry bracing myself for crumbly disappointment. Alas, the result was utterly unlike my prediction! The cake was beautifully moist and delicious - not overly sweet but brimming with prominent notes of maple. Naturally, it was devoured in no time, leaving much of my coffee behind. Our second purchase, the Lemon Muffin, boasted a golden top. The surface was made crunchy with the inclusion of coarse sugar granules, while the interior contained citrus peel for visual and gustatory contrast. That said, the specimen was decidedly coarse in texture, hardly citrusy, and not nearly as appealing as the Tigre-shaped Financier.
Read Part 1 HERE ! "When are we going to eat the smoked meat?" The reminder came in a timely manner. "Oh right." I thought, "Now would be great." Departing from Jean-Talon to the bus stop specified on Google Maps, we embarked on the short trek under my lead. While the walk spanned no more than ten minutes, my travel companion constantly questioned my navigation abilities: "Where are we even walking?" "Where are you going?" "When can we sit down?" and more filled the air. Combined with slowed footsteps of uncertainty, the ceaseless complaints put an immediate damper on my once-explorative journey. Similar to solo saunters about Toronto and Vancouver, there hadn't been a set itinerary. The disclaimer had been voiced on numerous occasions prior to the trip, intending to set the tone of travel. But alas, seemingly nothing could have relieved me from this grievance. A full-blown argument would unfold at the Clark/Mozart bus stop, depleting what remained of my already strained vocal cords. Not until the bus neared the stop did the endless ringing in my ears come to a temporary halt. Beyond boarding the Metro, I was also determined to attempt a trip on one of stm's bus routes. Connectivity and reliability of the overall transit network was of great interest to me, after all. The bus would prove no different than that of a standard municipally-operated passenger vehicle. It was grimy, featured patterned cloth seating, and had stop ("Arrêt") buttons situated throughout. At the front of the bus was the fare payment tap platform. This platform was not observed by the rear door, differentiating between the all-door boarding option of the GTA and Metro Vancouver. But perhaps the most obvious distinction was the announcement of upcoming stops in French, with not a lick of English to be heard at any point during the trip. We would disembark at Hôpital Hôtel-Dieu de Montréal at Rue Saint-Urbain. Heading east to the next major street of St. Laurent Blvd, we came face to face with Pharmaprix, essentially the province's equivalent of Shoppers Drug Mart. Despite having never Googled its storefront, Scwartz's Deli was easily identified by the swarm of down jacket-clad supporters huddled outside. Even at the late hour of 2 PM, the renowned eatery boasted a lineup of about thirty people. Navigating to the end of the queue, I noticed a second door also bearing the Schwartz logo. Drawing close, the interior revealed a much shorter lineup for takeout orders. The longer queue, while unsigned, was for dine-in customers only Smoked Meat Sandwiches were listed on the takeout menu, motivating my joining of the ten-ish person lineup without hesitation. Majority of those around me spoke English - a welcome change! - and were overheard debating orders of fries and urging the purchase of pickles. Within minutes, a man from behind the counter prompted me for my order. I relayed the request for one Smoked Meat Sandwich and two Pickles, for I had been unsure of their size. "You can grab the pickles from the fridge." The man pointed to the wall behind me. Turning around, I found sizable dill pickles crudely wrapped in blue plastic wrap. One was deemed sufficient; a $2.99 container of macaroni salad was selected instead of the second pickle. Both featured sticky, greasy surfaces. Posted on the Plexiglass barrier at the cashier was text about "cash" and "debit". In response to my initial vocalized panic, the customers in front assured me that the diner accepted all forms of payment. The middle-aged lady managing the checkout was likely the least amicable customer service representative encountered over the stay. Besides tossing wooden forks and napkins at me in a hurry, she displayed obvious annoyance when asked to change the payment method. Her irked nature almost led me to feel apologetic for faults I did not make. The attitude, along with her proficiency in the English language, was telltale of Schwartz's popularity amongst non-French speakers and locals alike.
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Who Am I?Formerly an avid owner of several interest-based portals, Random Thoughts of a Quirky Blogger presents precisely the elements expected. From experiments in the kitchen to miscellaneous musings, from IGOT7 reflections to developments in transportation infrastructure, it's all consolidated here. Welcome to the raw, unfiltered side of Quirky Aesthetics. Archives
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