I rise at 8:05. Not sure why. The kids aren't due to come here until 10.
I do my usual writing thing. The kids still aren't here at 11. Where the fuck are they? They eventually turn up at 11:20.
"Are we going to the diner now?" Alexei asks.
"It's far too late for that." I answer.
He looks quite disappointed. It’s his own fault for getting up too late. Unless he was just waiting for Andrew. We had planned a diner breakfast. Which is always a good way to start the day. But I wouldn’t want to have to rush it.
Instead, we go to the A&W next the light rail stop. Me and Alexei both get bacon, egg and cheese muffins. Along with coffee and, for Alexei, a chocolate croissant. Andrew doesn't have anything. What a shock.
The place was deserted when we entered. After a few minutes, it's become packed. I guess because it's after midday and this is the lunch trade. Our food is fine, if a little light.
The light rail gets us to Ottawa station in about 10 minutes. It's a very new, rather bland affair. But very functional. Very functional. Though it wouldn’t win any beauty prizes.
Me and Alexei get ourselves sandwiches. Then we go and sit in the lounge. Which is nice and relaxing. I get myself a café latte. I can do with some more waking up.
It's only a two-hour ride to Montreal. Nothing too strenuous. I get a gin and tonic again. While Andrew sticks with Steam Whistle Pilsner. For which he has to show ID. It’s his fault for shaving this morning. He has such a baby face when he’s beard-free. Alexei has a soft drink.
It's very flat outside. And very wet. Mostly farmland, punctuated by the occasional small town. And there are trees. Lots and lots of trees. A surprising number of them bare and dead.
“What do you think of the countryside, Alexei?”
“It’s a bit empty. Lots of trees, though.”
“And lots of maize. Potatoes, too, I think. Maybe some cabbages. Or kale.”
“Fascinating conversation, Dad.” Andrew chips in.
“Thank you.”
“You’re really not very good at spotting sarcasm, are you, Dad?”
“Piss off.”
“Always ready with a witty riposte, eh, Dad?”
“Fuck off.”
“Just proving my point.”
A cold meal is served. Either cheese or salami. I go for the latter, the kids the former. I'm impressed by the quality of the cheese. The red wine is OK, too. I assume that it’s Canadian.
Despite hanging around just outside the station for 10 minutes, we arrive just about exactly on time.
It’s not the prettiest of stations. And seems to be just the basement of an office block. A bit cramped, is how I would describe it. And busy.
The metro station at Montreal Gare Centrale is amazingly poorly placed. And hard to find. It's out of the station, across a busy road and hidden inside an office building. With no sign on the outside. Without directions, you'd never find the fucker.
Our hotel is further from the nearest metro stop than I would have liked. And all uphill. I'm knacked by the time we get there.
Once checked in, the kids nip out to the shop for supplies. Beer mostly. And cola.
“Can you get me some milk?” I ask.
“For your disgusting cocktail?” Alexei replies.
“Not all of it. I drink some of it straight.”
“To wash down all of your pills.”
“Partly. It’s not my fault I’m old.”
“Why do you mix your whisky with milk?”
“Because it’s easier on my stomach.”
“But it looks disgusting.”
“Tastes delicious.”
“I doubt it.”
Our evening destination is BreWskey Pub. Which is in Old Montreal. Back towards the metro station. Except this way it's all downhill. Or at least most of it. I try not to think about the return journey.
We walk past the town hall. It's pretty impressive, in grey stone. As are most of the buildings behind it in Old Montreal. It looks just like France. BreWskey is part of the very imposing Marché Bonsecours. A massive neoclassical pile.
Is this a brewpub? I’m not quite sure. They do seem to all their own beers. But where are they brewed? Is it here or another location? I’m none the wiser after looking at their website.
It's in a basement and has no windows. Which could be a bit claustrophobic. The range of beers is pretty decent. Seventeen draughts in all, with a Witbier, Kellerbier, Red Ale, Catharina Sour, Irish Stout and, of course, IPA. There are seven of those.
I get Exo, a sludge IPA. They seem to be the only type you can get in Canada. The kids go for Lagers. As they usually do.
It's not full. Only about half the tables are occupied. But it is a rainy Tuesday. A very rainy Tuesday.
We order some onion rings and cod cakes. Both are pretty good. The cod cakes are similar to Thai fishcakes, but without the chili.
Andrew notices that Roi du Frigo is listed as a TIPA.
"What's a TIPA, Dad?" Andrew asks.
“A Triple IPA. Like an IPA, but really strong.”
“I’m surprised that’s not what you’re drinking.”
“Why?”
“You always go for strong beers. Usually the strongest.”
“That’s not always true.”
“Really? Really?”
Just to prove Andrew wrong, I finish with a Roi du Frigo. A sludge Triple IPA. Which is a shame. Andrew gets one, too. I'm guessing because of the strength. The fucking hypocrite.
We don't stay out too late. It's pissing it down when we leave. Not to worry, we're getting an Uber. No way I'm walking up that hill again.
Back in the room, the kids drink some beer and I polish off the Reifel Rye.
Sleep isn't hard to find. It's there, lurking just under the sheets.
BreWskey Pub
380 Rue Saint-Paul E,
Montréal, QC H2Y 1H2
https://www.brewskey.ca/pub/
I'm really enjoying this series. I think in the interest of fairness, though, you should let the kids write an entry or two so they can offer their own versions of events.
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