Montreal: Pleasures and possibilities

 
The family spent most of last week in Montreal, visiting son Etienne and prospecting a potential move– an empty-nest possibility– to "the most European city in North America". 

Living for a week in a pretty Belle Époque apartment away from tourista central gave a sense of local life.

The women of Montreal are known for their style, which varies by neighbourhood. The city has countless friperies, or used-clothing stores, running the gamut from places that look like the Mad Men wardrobe department to  conservative shops stocked with last season's Féraud and YSL.

Whatever the price point, their verve and individuality make for fabulous people-watching.

You'll see more colour, more pattern-mixing, more audacity than in my native Toronto, more risk and twist. A woman in her late-50s wore a felted-wool skirt with a single applique'd calla lily that wound up the entire front, a cashmere t-shirt and over-the-knee boots–always boots once October arrives. (Shown, Muse by Christian Chenail, winter '10.)

Tavan & Mitto are an example of the best Montreal offers, knife-sharp tailoring wrapped in a feminine envelope.

Loved the dress above, its fluid wrap and potential for layering. (Alas, T&M sizes are only up to a 12–which fits like a narrow 10– that is, till I move there and bug them.)

Marie St-Pierre: If you said "take me to one place that captures un certain regard, her boutique would be my choice.  The coats are exceptional.

Look at the glove sleeves on the double-knit jersey ecru cape:

And we could not miss Ça va de soie, the temple to minimalist knits in merino and cashmere, all in neutrals or  whisp-of-colour Italian yarns. (Shown, Rebel dress.)


This trip, though, was about other delights. 

I met commenter lagatta, avid cyclist, bonne vivante and possessor of the most beautiful (newly undyed) silver hair.  She introduced me to a charming Outremount bistro, Terasse Justine, where we talked, laughed and shared small plates. 

We ate exuberantly: tuna sashimi in the sheerest veil of truffled oil and miso at Kaizen. Ravioli in wild mushroom sauce at L'Express. Dinner en famille at the apartment, joined by Etienne's sweetie, Tash.

A stroll to Café Olympico to mitigate the effects of tarte au noix.

And on our last evening, a raucous, freewheeling feast at the tiny Le Chien Fumant, where Etienne's roommate Liam is learning his trade.

How members of a group Chinese journalists could fall asleep at their table while a merry crowd, high on house-made charcuterie, clamoured around them is one of life's mysteries. We suspect jet lag.

 
And above these earthly indulgences, Mont-Royal drenched in sunlight, dipped in autumn colour, as if to say, "Here I am, in all my splendour! Bienvenue."