Thé au Logis

So what are two lost souls to do on a Saturday night when most of everywhere reeks with the foul stench of routine and the prospect of walking into yet again the same old place within which you always walk seems as appealing as old instant coffee on the morning after drinking a little too much. Before you get caught in that very specific analogy, let's assume for a second that this past weekend was indeed that Saturday night and I was indeed one of said lost souls. As we were aimlessly wandering the deserted streets in search of a place to sit down and quench our thirst for entertainment (and liquor), we pass by an especially unsavory part of a well-known (yet nevertheless, unsavory in its own regard) street in this here little city that I nowadays call home. Far from the hordes of drunken tourists and scantly-clad ladies of reputably dubious manners and equally reputable promiscuity, there stands a little Bistro hidden below street level away from the prying eyes of said tourists and aforementioned ladies.

This little gem by the name of Le Thé au Logis touts itself as a restaurant, art gallery and tea house in one. To say that it got me at 'art gallery' is maybe an understatement, the fact that they also have quite a nice selection of liquor at very acceptable prices as well as live jazz on Saturday evenings (and what do you know, this was indeed a Saturday evening) meant that this was by now a done deal. I will not mention the fact that I've been passing next to this place for quite a while now and I've always been finding it closed (or what I now understand to be their 'permanently closed'-look). Before we could decide whether to continue with our aimless wandering, we found ourselves descending the small steps leading up to the entrance.

Once inside we were greeted by a warm and dimly-lit atmosphere, punctuated by a deep sound of a bass guitar, the funky chords of an electric guitar and the soft notes of a piano. Other than the band, that seemed rather oblivious to our presence, the place was deserted. This was surreal yet very fitting of everything. After exploring our initial surroundings from the entrance, to the bar, to the coat hanger in the back of the hall to the walls lined with paintings and back to the bar, someone eventually popped out of some swing-doors that seemed to lead to a brightly-lit kitchen. After asking if they were open and if we could grab something to eat, we were reassured that they were indeed open, and if we would just take a seat he will bring us our menus. So we took a seat and the menus were handed to us by the same boy that popped out of the kitchen. After enjoying some more of the jazz and making our choices (Smoked Salmon in Chardonnay for me, clam chowder and dim-sum for my friend, and a platter of sushi as an entrée) our waiter jotted down our order on a piece of paper, handed it off to the kitchen staff and, to our amazement, grabbed a guitar and joined the band. This was too good.

A little while later, a man in what looked like a chef's outfit (a real chef's outfit, not the one with the puffy hat from the cartoons) came out with our food. I must say, for a Caucasian chef, he makes a mean dim-sum. To their credit, my friend did spot more of the kitchen crew that were indeed of eastern descent, so we could reassuringly approach the sushi platter with all our ignorant-westerner hearts.

Midway through our meal another customer did step in, which momentarily ruined the 'we have this place to ourselves'-attitude that we were enjoying so far. It didn't last long, as he soon became part of the décor and we continued our meal and conversation to the pleasant tunes of the 2 guitars, the piano and the drums (where did those come from all of a sudden?).

Once finished, we did not feel at all full (as one should feel at the end of a good meal) and we parted the place knowing that we didn't waste another Saturday.

Well done Thé au Logis for providing an oasis of culinary bliss with a hint of much needed but severely lacking relaxing ambiance in the jungle that is Montreal's Crescent Street.

Feel like reading more? Understand French? Here are some professional reviews:

Voir.ca review

Le Délit review

confused rhetorical tropes

To want to speak and be muted in your tracks – to want to scream and be silenced by your cries of despair. To want to lie with words of truth that hide behind dark curtains of deceit. To walk the path of the righteous in reverse – backtracking your steps to cover your footmarks in the cold snow of honesty.

It’s a labyrinth with only one way out – the same one that put you in. What will it be? Facing the minotaur in a battle for your heart or a futile attempt to fly away into the sun only to end up having your brittle wings melt and drown in the endless sea of tears?

The impossible reality that you dream of is nothing more than a hazy mirage invoked by a series of mirrors and shadows intertwined together to form your vision of life.

And sometimes I don’t know if agreeing with me is more infuriating than complete apathy. Things like “you’re right” or “you’re entitled to your opinion” are the worst of insults and there is a little razor blade cutting a little wrist in my brain each time you chose to use this tactic. I want some real, vibrant, blinding pain for a change. I want to feel the burn of the flame on my fingers or the dagger in my heart telling me that I’m not dreaming this badly scripted movie which you insist on making me live through.

What’s more hilarious in its own melancholically tragic kind of way, is your inability to comprehend my contorted way of backwards communication or respond to it in kind. The level at which I can barely bring myself to utter half a sentence containing anything at all at best marginally resembling direct communication is one that is so buried underneath so much innuendo and other equally colourful (yet most probably inept and misused) rhetorical tropes that I, myself, lose track of what little information I was trying to convey in the first place.

But alas, I am preaching to deaf ears. My disciples have all left me when there was no more water to turn into wine. In Vino Veritas and we’re all just a bunch of drunken liars. Where are all those hours and minutes and days and months and years that we pretended to be happy? Like auburn autumn leaves carried off by the winds of change, I suppose…

Happy travelling, wherever those winds may take you my dear reader. I will drink a glass for your health and light a candle in your memory. May your spirit burn strong and bright and may it light your path towards whatever it is you seek.

a play of 3 acts

The curtains open and the play begins.

Act 1

It was a rainy day yesterday. The streets are still wet and the air is fresh. Wandering around this grid of concrete is only fitting for setting the mood of what is to follow. The large mass of vegetation in the middle of this brick forest is supposed to calm the soul and alleviate the stress of urban lifestyle. Instead what it accomplishes is to remind the average pedestrian on its narrow asphalt trails that there is really nowhere to run. You may have your little coral and castle in your aquarium, but around you are still glass walls. Right next to this little oasis is one of few collections of art. Unfortunately for the art, it has to sit through hordes of visitors that lack the patience or interest to have a decent conversation with it. Instead it whores itself in an oblique

pretense of culture that at times reflects the nature of its owners a little more than they would like to.

Following was an exploration of culinary delights. The decadence of what used to be the centre of glamour shows right away in the once marvelous underground station turned restaurant and home to sub-par sea-food under the guise of haute-cuisine. The red-white checkerboard table-cloths were a nice touch. Showing once again that no matter how deep underground you try to hide, you can always feel like you’re at a picnic table unpacking food from your saran wrapping.

The highlight, good albeit short, was polluting the body and mind with alcoholic beverages at an establishment that is named after the famous communist newspaper ‘Pravda’. This place, of course, reflects what the Bolsheviks tried to accomplish perfectly. It serves very good caviar and their wide selection of martinis and high-class vodkas are what every hard working factory worker and farmer should aim for! Well done Pravda!

Act 2

As if foreshadowing what is to come, the day started with a cloudy sky and pouring rain. Fittingly, after an incessant and unsuccessful search for the most necessary component of a complete breakfast (coffee so strong that it pumps your blood pressure through the roof and fills your bladder faster than you can spot a bathroom), the hollow space that once used to house thousands of people, made itself visible. The ‘don’t cheapen this site’ and collection of confused/disappointed observers/gawkers made for an interesting commentary of the impact it has on society.

This is a picture of a Mamiya C99 TLR camera. It is special because it does not exist. I’m sure you don’t believe me so I invite you to go ahead and try digging up information about this model. It sits there looking at you as much as you are looking at it. The only difference is: it is safe. I am not.

Later that night the rain was pouring still. Fighting your way through hordes of people and doormen has a certain sense of accomplishment. Once passed that initial obstacle, the circus was to begin. Music, alcohol, people, lights, movement, sweat, tremors, stage, smoke… in short, everything one would wish for in an otherwise rainy night. I never imagined how easy it is to go from one state of mind to another and in such a short amount of time. A short glimpse is all it took. Unfortunately alcohol was not served anymore at that late hour, so my double shot of jack did not come when it was most needed. With a rushing mind it is better to let the body just continue what it was doing. Can’t do anything rash or you might regret it later.

Sometimes when the question is not asked, your mind does not bother answering it, so you end up living in this utopia of bliss where there is no need for an answer because there was never need for the question. But then the answer is forced upon you. You come to realize what you have been postponing and ignoring since the start. You just hoped it was nothing. Nothing… but then in one instant you realize you do care. It does affect you. So how do you react to that? You make the best of it. It is never anybody’s fault. There is no one to blame. So the best thing to do is to communicate the situation. Communication is always better than lack of thereof. So that happened here as well. That was the highpoint of communication that was reached. The most sincere and direct way. Now back to the play, the third and final act is next, and the crescendo has already passed. What follows is just a gradual decline.

Act 3

Started with beautiful weather, sunny day and blue skies, in contrast to the general mood the ‘lack of sleep’ has set for the day.

A mask such as this Welder’s mask in the Museum of Modern art reflects the state of mind one had to be in today.

In everything you looked at, the only thing you could see was the inside of your mind reflecting back like in a mirror split in hundreds of little pieces of all shapes and sizes.

Our good friend Marcel’s Bicycle Wheel was a poignant reminder of how things move constantly, but essentially remain rooted in the same place.

The clouds finally covered the otherwise beautiful sky of this morning, obstructing the sun, only leaving few rays to shine through.

Close curtain

Epilogue

A change of setting and atmosphere is near. In addition to keeping your mind off of things, it also provides with new perspectives. Sitting still and knowing for a fact that nothing will be moving or talking around you for as long as you sit can be a blessing as much as it can be a curse. It is however a natural progression of this here play. You can leave the theater now, go back to your families and sleep tightly in your beds with the reassuring thought that it was only a stage act. Adieu mes amies.

something happy

So I really wanted to write something happy, I really did. I tried my hardest, and as hard as I'd try, the worse it would get. And after each phrase I am tempted to press the backspace once more, advancing one word and retracting by two. Repetitivity has a way of repeating itself in an endless loop of repeating itself in an endless loop. A dot marks the spot where the sentence ends and a new one begins so in a way it marks the beginning of the end. Commas are more graceful. And just because you can write doesn’t mean you can write. It is very easy to make lines on a paper, not so easy to make nice ones. Words shaped into ideas are nothing but ideas put into words - but each sentence is a thought. Writing without thinking will not result in any useful amount of information aside from the one delivered in your text. Listening to music while you write doesn't affect your writing so you shouldn't do it because you may end up writing meaningful notes about subjects. Reading books is useful because you can later repeat what your read, in your own words and your opinion will be based on others' who most certainly know better than you about your opinion because they read about it in a book. Knowledge is power. Power isn't the ability to control but rather to achieve results without being controlling. Grammatics are but a suggestion when you're writing for yourself. Spelling is important because if you spell right, the bad grammar becomes transparent. Of course this being said, bad grammar will evidence itself in a blink of an eye no matter how good your spelling is. Logical fallacies are fun when used in the right way. Illogical fallacies however have a way of only existing in the imaginary world of word-games. Chemicals tend to generate squiggly lines which get straightened when diluted by water. Washed out paper is hard to write on. Dissolving ideas into concepts only further advances the fading color of the ink. Stains tend to cross through paper if the ink is still wet and the paper is absorbing enough. Typing text avoids this problem, but it creates a new one by necessitating both hands to type instead of only one to write. Rubbing your eye won't make it stay open or avoid drying.