Bar & Restaurant Reviews

So I'm dating this dipshit Canadian actor, who hasn't entirely decided to deal with his closeted issues yet, and who's pretty much a yutz in every other way you can imagine. But he's fun to date 'cause he's hot, he's marginally famous (in Canada), he's hot, and I get to stay in Montreal for free. And he's hot. But I'm sick of his paranoia every time we're in public and I'm ready to fuck with his head a little, and maybe even risk losing him over it because let's face it... sometimes a really good head fuck is just as good a lay as its southern cousin.

I'm asking myself where I can go in this town and be assured of the right kind of audience for my performance and I remember that The Globe has been crawling with gossip columnists and social busybodies ever since George Clooney picked up a waitress here last March - who on a side note I think he's still dating. Make your reservations well in advance kids, this isn't fucking "La Belle Province".

I arrive first, and make sure to get one of the tables towards the center of the large dining room. The more tables within earshot, the more he'll sweat. He's a couple minutes behind and I've already ordered the wine, a 1998 Pascal Jolivet Pouilly-Fume which is tasty and not too sweet. I'm not a fan of white wine, but my Quebecois twitboy is. I can tell he's already uncomfortable. The management believes the success of The Globe is based on their use of "the freshest local ingredients and the best local organic produce". Bullshit. If you want to know what's going on in Montreal you come here and listen to every conversation except the one you're in.

I order the foie gras and Prince Chumpy St. Jerk here orders the endives with stilton, walnuts, and apple. We're noshing, we're chatting, and all it takes is an occasional phrase like "Your dealer called" to give me the best entertainment I've had in months. He squirms and perdiodically glances over his shoulder. The foie gras is fantastic and his plate of endives and apples is a pleasing complement to his flushed complexion. Fucking pasty-white Canadian dingwatt.

We move on to the main courses, I choose the roast chicken with mushrooms, spinach, and mashed potatoes, and he orders veal because he's a fucking idiot. I'm enjoying my deliciously moist poultry as well as my increasingly annoying conversation topics. By now I've gone way past easy stuff like "So my mom wants to meet you" and "Don't you think your fans want to know the real you" and moved on to really fun stuff like "hey didn't you fuck that guy?" and "Damn those go-go boys at Sky Pub know how to lap dance — I thought you were gonna be hard for a week!". And nothing punctuates a sentence here quite like the question "hey what do you think that guy's writing?"

By the end of it I had an awesome meal, a hilarious show for one, and, well okay we broke up about a week later but it was worth it.

Dumb fucking asspony.

chumwater

November 27, 2002

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