Where The River Narrows

Nov 8

Classic French & Nostalgic Québécois Recipes From St. Lawrence Restaurant

4:45 p.m. Pre-shift staff meeting’s in the bag, and everyone’s starting to gear up for doors opening in fifteen minutes. Holy shit, eighty-five covers on a Tuesday night. Even after twenty-five years in the industry, I still get butterflies before the first guests arrive. David cues up “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC on the sound system and cranks it super loud. For five minutes, every single team member goes a little apeshit, screaming “YEAH!” at the tops of their lungs—we’re all amped. Then, just as abruptly as it began, the music dies, and we all settle into that familiar groove. We’ve blown off some of the pre-game stress; it’s still there, but at least it’s a little more controlled and less chaotic now. Above all, though, we stay grounded because we have faith in our system at St. Lawrence, faith in each other, faith that everyone’s station is looking good, faith that we’re all serious enough to be ready. It’s the calm before the storm. Bon service, tout le monde. It’s go time.

I can’t say that cooking has always been my calling. When I was a kid, I spent most of my time playing team sports, but eating has always my true passion. I loved—and still love—the ritual of sitting at a table and having a hearty meal with family and friends. It was as if a deep understanding of the power of food ran through my veins from a very early age; I could see how it brings people together and gives everyone something to talk about.

We didn’t dine at restaurants very often while I was growing up in Saint-Jérôme, Québec. I discovered that part of my culinary journey much later. But we always had something good to eat on the table at home because my mother was incredibly creative with the budget. The food that came out of her kitchen was traditional, healthy, and seasonal. And, damn, could Mom ever throw a party. I remember so many epic dinners with Dad’s soccer friends—those nights were always off the hook. Six-year-old me would stare wide-eyed at the méchoui, the spit-roasted lamb stuffed with pounds of butter and spices (and I mean ridiculously huge amounts of butter). Everyone would fight for the mignonettes (testicles), but I’d grab a giant leg bone. It was huge for a little kid, kind of like something out of The Flintstones, and I’d sit in the corner chewing on that massive piece of lamb, loving every bite.

Spending time outdoors was a big part of my childhood, and foraging fiddleheads with my father was the adventure that I looked forward to the most. We’d come back home to sauté them simply in butter with chopped garlic; I’ll never forget how impressed I was to taste something so delicious that we’d just picked ourselves in the forest.

For most of his life, my paternal grandfather had a small cabane à sucre (sugar shack) in the woods, accessible only by foot or by Ski-Doo. With seven sisters and two brothers in my dad’s family, it was always a big deal when all his siblings and their families got together. Our annual sugar shack reunion was, by far, one of my favourite family gatherings. All my cousins and I would run from tree to tree, screaming at the top of our lungs when we were lucky enough to find maple sap in the buckets. And watching my grandfather reduce that liquid into amazing maple syrup was the most magical thing ever.

Admittedly, the teenage years were tough for me. I didn’t know a lot about myself, who I was or what I liked. For the most part, I was incredibly confused about what I should do with my life. But I did know one thing for sure: I could never be stuck in a job where I’d be chained to a desk. I needed to move, to always be active. My closest friends pushed me to take the one-year course in hôtellerie to become a cook. A bunch of my buddies and I were sharing a house together at the time, and I was always the one who’d meal plan, cook, and grill for us all. Who knows—maybe they were leveraging the prospect of better meals! Regardless, a career in cooking seemed like a natural fit for me, so I told myself, “Why not give it a shot?”

I spent a year training in classical French cooking techniques, and decided to take my first kitchen job at Les Remparts in Old Montréal. A true old-school French restaurant, its menu featured dishes like veal sweetbreads with grapes, venison with chestnuts and salsify, coq au vin, côte de veau with chanterelles and vin jaune, lobster ravioli with bisque, poached pears in Riesling, and mousse au chocolat with crème chantilly. I was immediately hooked.

The physical aspect of cooking is what really drew me in, and I saw the kitchen brigade as being very much like a sports team. I believe that good cooking, at least in a restaurant, demands being in good physical condition. The long hours, stress, and abuse your body endures on an everyday basis are huge factors, and a person has to deeply love cooking to dedicate themselves to it. Is it a good way to live? I don’t have the answer to that. But I can confess that I was all in from day one and became obsessed with food and this profession right away.