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

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.