Smoked Meat, no not smoked meat, but Montreal Smoked Meat: The secret, spiced, salted, flavoured, not so lean beef, thinly sliced in between two slices of rye bread, slathered with French’s Mustard; sandwich à la viande fumée. And French Fries or pommes frites, shoestring style; hot , greasy, and salted. Oh the agony and the ecstasy. How many calories? How many grams of fat? How many grams of saturated fat? How many times the daily maximum of sodium? How many milligrams of nitrates? But the ecstasy of a nutritional free fall: Do not count calories, points, NDA of fat or sodium. Just inhale the meat, inhale the thin, crisp golden thin wisps of fried in hot grease potatoes.
When in Montréal do as the citizens do. We walked, we walked a lot. My wife and I were there for our eleventh wedding anniversary. We took the train on Friday and experienced three seasons of weather while we were there for just ever 48 hours. From a high of 33 C on the Friday to a low of 15 on Sunday morning, from dead calm on Friday to winds of 60 km/h plus on Saturday from dry to rain we saw it all. We saw doves of peace and love and a man with a gaze seeing something that we could not see wearing his skull covered jacket. We saw men on the streets carrying garbage bags that likely contained their life’s possessions and a singular leather man bag at Harry Rosen’s for $2800. We dined alone and we dined with strangers (in the jowl to jowl intimacy of crowded Montréal restaurants) and we dined with a dear friend. We took the Metro and we walked the Botanical Gardens and we towered above the city atop the old Olympic Stadium. We did it all.
But my once a year (okay, maybe twice) free fall into the nutritional abyss was worth it. I will not name the deli, but it had a name common with my Cardiac Surgeon. So it must have been okay.