A Montreal Moment
We spent a lovely few days in Montreal last weekend, celebrating my daughter’s birthday (mine got an honourable mention). I’m finding these short trips optimal of late, and they’re especially efficient with little ones: dump everything and everyone in car, drive two hours to be transported to the glamour of Montreal with its architecture, restaurants, boutiques. It felt briefly like we were back in our old life in Paris, even down to hopping around to avoid ‘les crottes’ on the dog-friendly sidewalks. Glamourous, indeed.
The children hadn’t yet visited Montreal, and we were fortunate with a glorious October weekend - the backdrop of the Old Port with fall foliage was spectacular. And although it’s still a bit of an Olympic sport, I loved trying new restaurants with the children. It was a much loved activity during our travels BP (Before Pandemic), but after a two year break I’m watching them relearn this experience - we don’t know what exactly we’ll eat, where exactly we’ll sit, who our table neighbours will be, how we will be connected through the shared experience of food and atmosphere and our choice to be there at the same moment in time. The process unfolding as we live it, learning to adjust our behaviour and expectations with each new meal in a new place.
We had brunch at a creperie in Old Montreal (Chez Suzette, a bit of an institution and highly recommended). I had reserved a table but still, we were happily surprised to be led all the way to the top floor and into the sunniest corner looking out toward the cobblestone streets and a glimpse of the water. The enormous historic windows weren’t clean, but through their filminess I saw vivid images of the traders and voyageurs who convened in the Old Port as early as 1611, when it was a hub of commercial activity on the Saint Lawrence River. The sun poured in as we ate, and I looked up and saw a father and daughter having brunch. Eating in the same sunlight looking out at the same streets. They finished first, and shared a tender exchange that the photographer in me couldn’t help but capture. The mother in me wanted to rush over and show them the photo, offer the type of memory that I always wish could be captured with my own children. But what would the father say? I wondered, had I invaded their moment? Would I disrupt the intimacy of their meal by intruding?
I debated quietly with my husband and kids, and we were all equally perplexed about what would be the right thing to do. But I decided to take a chance and walked over, and he was thrilled. I ended up texting him the photo, and received a message later the day: Magnifique! Merci a vous! Then I was thrilled.
I found the courage when I saw my children watching me, wondering what I would do. I wanted them to understand the power of connection. The power of language, being able to speak with this stranger in French and connect to him. The power of creative action, the courage to capture a moment even if it may not end up as planned. The power of sharing, the ability to contribute to someone’s memories and treasured moments. The power of finding your confidence as a woman of colour, to approach a stranger and use your voice. I want them to realize the power that lies in these small daily decisions, the choices that open up the world and make a restaurant experience more than a culinary one.
I don’t know if they got all that out of it. My son was pretty focused on his strawberry and Nutella crepe, but I’d like to think that these moments are imprinted on them somehow. That when they remember me years from now, through the historic film of their mind’s eye, they will feel inspired to create and connect with confidence. And explore a lot of good restaurants along the way.
