Lunch at the House of Jazz

Sometimes it's easy to love Montréal. As we strolled towards Notre Dame this morning, someone near us whistled for a cab so loudly that my ears rang--it turned out to be a frail, white-haired old lady with a cane and a wrist brace. Vivid, take-no-shit women seem to thrive here. Witness the woman who served us lunch at the House of Jazz yesterday. The House of Jazz itself is worth seeing; its exuberant décor refuses to recognize "kitch" as a category, mixing Art Nouveau bronzes with life-size figures of Jake and Elwood. Our waitress was worthy of the setting: bright-eyed, leathery, and about as shy as the Wife of Bath. "That shit is GOOD," she rasped, when we ordered the duck terrine. She was right: beautifully meaty duck flavoured with fresh orange, wrapped in pork caul fat, and served in an actual terrine. She sang along with every jazz standard that came over the sound system during the lunch rush and high-fived us when we left, feeling like we'd found the warm, bright heart of the Montréal galaxy.

It's not just the women, either. Our cab driver today barely had his hands on the wheel while he clapped and danced to blaring Haitian music, but even Stan couldn't help grinning anyway, as we veered joyously through the tunnels of the Bonadventure Highway with all the windows open. Un bon adventure, indeed.