The bagel verdict...

A Canadian man hopped aboard a NASA rocket and finds himself in outer space. No big deal, yeah? Well, it is a big deal... if you're from Montreal. The guy ordered a boat load of bagels from this place on Fairmount near St. Urbain and the rest is history.

Did you know that little anecdote? Not likely, if you're from bagel-loving New York, where the city undoubtedly boasts the world's best. The Canastronaut was destined to bring Canadian bagels. Seriously, would he have brought maple syrup or Canadian bacon? Only bagels would keep long enough to be consumed at some point down the line and you wouldn't expect him to bring AMERICAN bagels now, would you? For all we know, perhaps he's never even had a New York bagel up until that fateful point in Bagel history. It's sheer bagelnomics my dear, Watsonheim.

Being that I am not moneyed and far from my beloved Brooklyn (and consequently the financially subsidized confines of my mother) I've embarked on quests by the handful in search of cheap and filling foods here in Montreal. Then it hit me! After enduring taunts by various Montrealers about how great the bagels here are, I seem to recall that bagels are quite filling and cheap. Bagels are quite filling and cheap (repeated because someone somewhere thought to him/herself "phew, you could say that again").

The thought hit me at an hour fast approaching midnight, so I summoned my old friend; these here Internets. Apparently, Rocketboy, eh's bagel shop was a 24 hour establishment and with narry a hesitation I entered my coordinates and headed out ("oat"). Yes, the bagels were reasonably priced (less than C$1 each) so I picked up a few and headed to a Provigo for some peanut butter and strawberry preserves. When I got home I reached into my bag of bagels and pulled out a cinnamon-raisin and a plain. Hard as stones! Still, barely deterred, I reached for a breadknife and sliced them in two, popped them in the toaster and applied ample amounts of peanut and strawberry matter. That's the stuff! Like my mother says "You butter your bread real nice, man. All sides."

Okay, so here's the verdict. The bagel itself has so much hole to it and as previously mentioned, it's a hard piece of wheat. Also, if you paid close attention, I had to slice my own bagel. Bagel stores where I'm from have contraptions (expensive, but classy looking things, really) what slice your bagels for you. Also, bagel stores in my parts toast AND do the buttering/jellying/peanutbutter et. al. for you. Fairmount Bagels only bakes you bagels and sells you bagels and bagel provisions (cream cheeses and stuff). Oh yeah, the hole industry works against the bagel consumer. The bagels, too, are smaller. So this all equates to a more expensive, though indirectly so, bagel. There is less bagel and you have to work harder to get it ready for your tongue. But, it IS delicious. They are really, really good. A little sweeter, tougher and chewier, but gumptious. I will say, the New York bagel is the better value. There is less hole and more bagel. New York bagel shops will customize your bagel however you fancy it. New York bagels are softer though I'd imagine a Montreal bagel is easier to tolerate once it has staled. A stale New York bagel is a brick with more practicality as an implement of violence than nutrition. Still, based solely on deliciousness, value and quality, the New York bagel is better in my subjective, Brooklynite mind. A valiant effort by Montreal Jews is not, however, to be ignored. They are delicious and both the main bagel bakers are 24 hour establishments. I've only ever been to Bagelsmith in Williamsburg for a bagel at 3am (but they are an ill representation of the New York bagel as they are overpriced and, frankly, not all that delicious).

It must be noted that I bought better bagels at the supermarket just a couple blocks away from me, but still they are a half notch below a good New York bagel (even a New York supermarket bagel). They're less tough and a slight bit bigger. They're still sweeter (which is nice) and very delicious but probably less edible when not toasted.

It should also be noted that I tend to only eat toasted bagels with stuff on them. I have been able to eat really good New York bagels without any toasting or stuff. I'm afraid to try it with the Montreal bagels as they are much tougher than New York bagels.

While eating my 2am Fairmount Bagel bagels it occured to me what my mother would say. She'd quip that I left New York and drove hours to the Great White Franco for tiny, hard bagels with huge holes. I'd be embarrassed. They're delicious, but certainly no New York bagel.

Growing pairs...

I wish I truly had a pair. A golden opportunity showed its delightful, glittery face to me today.

I got a bike for free yesterday, but it needed work. So I run to the free bike cooperative at McGill University to look about fixing up my fixer-upper.

I get there and sign in. The volunteer on duty is a little awkward, but I'm one to talk. What with my outward, outgoing personality, I sequester his aid. He helps me and at first seemed to know EVERYTHING. Then, slowly but surely it became evident that he knew lots, but was filling in the blanks as he went. But that's perfect at a do-it-yourself bike cooperative. He gets you started and you get handy and fix your stuff yourself, because the blanks always far outnumber the stuff empirical evidence can support.

The best part, folks... the ladies! They come in droves and they're all hot. And the best part, they're all using tools and have greasy hands and are fixing the hell out of their bikes. Damn, they're so hot. One had an amazing tattoo of musical notes on the back of her hand. Another must've been about 6'2". Then there's the girl from the Scooby Doo cartoons. Well, she shares a name with a character from the Scooby Doo cartoons.

Right, so I notice her working on something. She's there just trying to wrench her heart out, but the bolt isn't budging. I know exactly what that's like. Sometimes elbow grease just does not cut it. So I suggest to her my favorite mechanic's pastime; the cheater rod. That's when you throw a longer bar over your ratchet/wrench and pull! It usually double the amount of torque you apply, depending on the length and in no time we were twisting bolts like no tomorrow on her bike. Thing was, it wasn't benefiting. Nothing was coming apart. Turns out, we were wrenching to the right. "Righty tighty, lefty loosey." Mr. Awkward said I'm wrong, so I go about my business. Scooby Doo comes back over and we exchange quick notes. Turns out, Mr. Awkward was wrong. But I was already too embarrassed to assert myself anymore in that place. I'd already broken the chain on my bike with a half broken tool. Then I broke the tool that broke my bike (accidents). And that was the only such bike chain remove clamp doohickey in the place.

So I opted to courteously remove myself from the premises before being killed. THEN! Ohhhhhh, then... Then the Scooby Doo girl informs me that I owe her a hug upon my departure. Me, sans a pair, was too shy/embarrassed and what have you to get her number. Ouch.

Sick and tired... of being sick and tired

Wow, it sucks to be ill. This weekend, Montreal found me with physical illness. For one, I've been stricken with plantar fasciitis. Seriously, it hurts to walk and I find myself walking from the Plateau to Verdun every night (because the Metro closes). For those not in the know, that's a trek that often takes a hair under 2 hours and I don't lallygag while I traipse.

Then there is the fever that kept me in bed all day today. It was rough. The sore throat made things none too easy either. Crap! I also went out yesterday (with a sore throat but not too feverish) and played flag football. It was my first athletic contact since arriving in the land of the maple leaf. The first play had me on the floor. I fell and skinned my knee. It hurts. I think the skinned section of knee is infected. But it was also the most fun I've had all month. It's probably been two decades since I fell and skinned my knee. I hope it leaves a scar.

My hand is also swollen from awkwardly trying to intercept a wayward pass. And I get a text from someone who confesses she's at the end of her rope. I refused to give her the time of day.

Back to MY life...

We threw a bar-b-que here at chez Verdun. It was amazing. The roommate cooked up tandoori chicken (all dark meat), and the guests raved and raved. I cooked up burgers which went over well too. The qualifier, however, was the huge-ass Frito pie (a la the Levee) that I cooked up. It beat poutine a lot to none in our very unscientific poll done on the spot with lots of pressure on respondents to nod in agreement.

Oh man, the developments are happening faster than a Parkinsons patient can shake a stick at
'em. ALL the women at the bar-b-que were HOT. And they were so awesome. Except, they were so young and full of promise. And I'm old and crotchety.

Last night, sick, drunk and attempting to wait for the "night bus", I got to talking with another phantom bus awaiter. We spoke of the delightful women here. But in such a way as you'd probably expect from a Canadian. Very cordial, yet altogether engrossing. The word "eh" was bandied about. He once remarked about the "big juicy asses" of the city's Black girls. Long, boring story short, we came to the agreement that the francophone Asian girls were clearly hot in an exotic, anomaly sort of way.

Another night of a thousand footsteps

The Metro closes well before 2am. Last call is at 2:45am. The incongruousness is evident. Anytime I even half-heartedly attempt night time debauchery, I end up taking a thousand steps... home. Last night was no different.

So one girl invites me to sleep on her couch. I suppose I probably wouldn't mind sleeping on her. But, she was going to take a taxi home. Before I take a taxi to hers, wouldn't I just take one to my BED as opposed to her couch? Yeah, and after footstep number 1, there are only 999 left. That decision was easy.

Monday evenings is Arts & Crafts night at the Cock and Bull. And across the street somewhere is karaoke night, every night. I wound up doing both. Made a Quebecois flag, with two marijuana leaves and two fleur de lys.

Speaking of fleur de lys... I can imagine THAT being my first tattoo.

The weather is making me feel menopausal. One day I'm mowing grass and watching my breath in the air, the next I feel over dressed in... anything. The day after is supposed to be a combination of overcast rainy-ness and bullshit!

So my boss' woman-friend/pseudo wife IS smoking back-to-back whilst nourishing a bun in the oven. And she's already got a disabled child. If ever there were a more apparent case for the woman's right to choose movement, I'd be impressed. At least Philip Morris is guaranteed another generation of customers (if anyone still has any worries about the state of our prospective economy here in North America).

Shows! Right, so marijuana is pervasive. About half of the shows I've been to here in Montreal in May have involved the herb. In fact, I walked down Ste. Catherine which is THE strip for tourists and downtowners alike and caught a lung full of the natural mystic. Right out in the open.

At the Piknic Electronik, the folks were out puffing their brains free. In fact, Ms. Yoga teacher and I asked the event security for a light. He smiled and we had his lighter in our hands BEFORE we even finished asking.

Tired of reading about ME yet? I'm tired of writing about me. I sure am.

(Free time)

Had a less than great day... the other day. I got "paid" (In Canada, nearly everything gets quotations). Apparently, I make less than minimum. That, friends and obscene blog voyeurs, is an oxymoron.

I had a massive craving for MSG-er-Chinese fried rice. In New York, you just look for the bullet proof glass and a store front with luncheon specials listed. At such greasy spork establishments, you can easily score a pint of salty, yummy vegetable or beef fried rice for under $4. I figured Montreal is full of Chinese (come on, there ARE billions of them running around, right?), so I should be able to find something analogous, within reason. I query my mate Cody who directs me to Marc and Ste. Catherine. There I find Cafe Wok (or was it Wok Cafe?) which had the cheapest prices of the several restaurants of Asian persuasion in the area.

I walk in, find a seat, grab a menu and peruse. Dudes (and dudettes, where applicable), fried rice in Montreal starts at $6.95. I know, it's play money (what's a Canadian Dollar??) but money nonetheless. Alright, so they've got a special on the General Tso's chicken. Comes with a spring roll, rice and... uhm, chicken. I ask the waiter if the chicken was white meat. "Yes" came his reply. Fuck that, I'll have one. Even agreed to chip in an extra $1.50 to make the steamed rice, fried (which only means they sprinkle soy sauce on it to brown it, and crack an ostrich egg or something into it). Well, I'll never eat there again, and I might only never try Chinese in Montreal again. The "white meat" was all skin and fat and dark. The fried rice was all egg (hence the ostrich crack, if you didn't get it). I ate around the chicken and egg, and was still hungry. Waste of $10 (came up to $8.45 and didn't stick around for my change).

Upon walking away from the worst restaurant experience in my life, I nearly cried. The rain was pouring something fierce and I am poor and starving. And no one in Canada is reliable (like waiters) so I had no one to call up and get to come to a good, cheap place with me. Alone. Me.

But I didn't cry. I've too many testicles, apparently.

In the end, Cody found an art vernissage with free cheese, veggies and wine, it stopped raining, and the yoga teacher rang with the most illest idea; a free concert (K-OS) at the Olympic where weed was smoked out in the open while 30 or so burly, strapping security guards stood and inhaled very, very deeply.

Then Friday pops up, the weather is splendid, I worked for ALL of it and the new boss man with the pregnant-pack-a-day-smoker-girlfriend buys me lunch and pays me more for two days work than the other job did for about 4 or 5 days.

St. Hubert has a half sandwhich and soup for $5.55. Got to try that. Maybe that'll be lunch on Sunday.

Basically, my life has devolved into hunting and gathering (beer and food).

Quotation Marcs

I caught myself giggling ferociously to myself only moments ago. I work for Canadians now. That means instead of working at 7:30am SHARP, I work at "10am". Which means, show up at 10am if you'd like to hang out for a few, first. So I aerate lawns for this chap named Marc. Endearing fellow, really, but quite obnoxious is what he all boils down to. You have to be. See, Marc sells his craft door to door. Porte a porte. Door-to-door sales is a bitch and only the most immune and obnoxious persevere and excel. That's Marc. Anyway, Marc is young and lazy by American standards. So he says I have to be there at 10am, but we never start doing ANYthing until 10:25am at the earliest.

So I went looking for a new gig. And I got one. I got a landscaping gig. The lady calls me bright and early one morning and asks me to come down. I wipe the cold out of my eye and say "ppffftttt, no." So she calls back and got me to come in today. 7:30am she said in the email. I get there at 7:15am. She had this dust-up with the previous help because the guy showed an hour or so late. I'm thinking "that's appropriate, no?" I mean, for Montreal, anyways. Right, so I get there early and shit, only to lallygag until 7:45. Fuckers! I'm there and they're back-to-back chain smoking, Ron and Anika. Funny thing, at 7:40, just before Ron and I take to the road, Anika tells me she doesn't drink, partly because she's pregnant. I now know why Canadians are so flaky and late.

Ron must've burned through 2 or 3 packs of nicotine sticks the nine hours we spent today. My chest is burning. 1 more day. 1 more day.

Why are you doing this to me, O'Canada? And your ladies, hot as they are...? Are they flakers too? This one lady I know is soooooooo lazy. And the yoga teacher, is on a different speed altogether. By right, she gets high praise for not canceling on me. We hung out two or three times. But that's where Canadian reliability ends. Maybe her folks just never smoked while pregnant with her?

'Cause EVERYONE else here does (smoke). They really could use a couple of those New York State Smokers' Quitline commercials. Actually, I'm certain these folks sit around all day and watch television.

Anyway, I'm down on Canadian people, but not yet down on Canada. Besides the flaking and the smoking this place has amazing potential. Unfortunately, I just may have to debride the losers surrounding me.

And I haven't gone crazy...

The people here... are FLAKY! Maybe it's just that I need people? It could all just be me.

I think I'm making good progress. But then I get flaked on. People are so nonchalant in Canada about doing or not doing things. Which I can almost understand. I think I may be a bit much for people sometimes, especially the Canadians. Eh.

But yesterday I went to Brewtopia. They've got excellent beers and such. So I run for the strongest thing they've got. The Belgium. The bartender lady looks me square in the eye and says "it's strong!" Apparently she's never had a Blithering Idiot. Or a QUAD. Or a Dogfish Head 120 Minute IPA. In fact, when/if I get back to the States, I've got to find a 120 and pound it.

Right, so I sit on the Brewtopia terrace and I sip on my half pint of 9% Belgium (by the fucking way, it's the only beer that wasn't a dollar off; it was all day happy hour Monday) and I notice one of the two lesbians looking at me. I really thought I was mistaken. But then from down below two other girls called up to me and asked if I'd seen a girl with short jean shorts walk pass. The lesbians got very keen on me now and started whispering to one another. Baffled, they called to me about 8 minutes later to ask if the girls were asking about a short girl going into the bar. Without giving them the mind-your-own-business-bitches face, I humored them and told them they were wrong-ola. But they started to chat me up, I invited myself over to their table and we made a good hour out of it. We exchanged numbers and had a mega cool Montreal conversation. This sort of shit is exactly why I came here. And one of them was really searing hot. But a lesbian.

Sooooo. I'm pretty sure I'll never see them again. That's how these folkses work.

WAIT! As I'm typing, a Canadian has rung me. Yoga teacher. Wants to go to some sort of improv. Says she's tired or something. BUT, I've got something to do. So I'll ship off now. I'll add a pic to this post upon my return.

Joie de Vivre

The Canadian Centre for Architecture (Centre Canadien d'Architecture) had a massive fete! They opened at 11am Samedi and closed at 7am Dimanche. Yeah, I took part. Yeah, I made a huge piece in the build your own museum workplace. I called it La File and had anyone who took part, and who wanted to, sign it. It was a hit. So naturally I became an instant ladies magnet.

I've also discovered that if the Francophones (women) see that an Anglo (me) is trying to learn French, they like him. So I've got a strategy. And a couple friends. And a beer-a-day in the park habit. And pictures. They'll be on MySpace soon. And a link will exist to the right... eventually.

The picture is from my walk home. At 5:30 am on Sundays, the Metro opens. Which means that after I got breakfast and wanted to retreat to my humble abode, I needed to walk. So I hiked it. I had to cross this canal (La Chine Canal, I believe) at maybe 5am. I saw it and I immediately felt like I live here. Fuck, it's going to be hard to have to leave.

Je habite le Montreal

It's been forEVER folks, hasn't it?

Every so often, I high tail it to somewhere with some sort of obscure allure. This time I took directly to the Great White North in search of... meh, I wish I knew what I came in search of (other than French Canadian women) or why.

Alls I know is that I've embarked on a new adventure and among my most frivolous goals are learning "le langue" and meeting and slaying the many French Canadian "femmes". Slaying may be going a wee bit too far, eh? Okay, maybe embarking on a few... if you know what I mean. You know what I mean? You know what I mean!

Alright bitches! Here we go.

So I get here on a Tuesday. It's Friday and already I've had a night where I drank about 8 glasses of wine and peddle home on a BMX that's far too small in a torrential downpour, and drank beer in the park. Pictures to follow. Sooner rather than later.