Through my middle and high school years, my parents would take my little brother and I to Montreal in the summers, to visit family. With alternating drivers, the drive up typically took a solid 24 hours. We rarely stopped to spend the night, and fast-food was the accepted means of nutrition on the (quite literally) day-long car ride. These conditions made us all grateful for a lovingly-prepared, homemade meal once we crossed the Canadian border and arrived at Grandma’s house. Savory soups, appetizing salads (vert and couscous), meat pies, regular pies (pumpkin, blueberry) casseroles...
On the weekends, a parade of my uncles, aunts, cousins, and assorted significant others would march in and partake with us. Red wine would be consumed. Rivers of it, the bottles stacking high to construct a makeshift dam.
At least in my family, there is a deep correlation between food and happiness. Even before the first cork had been pulled, while buttering bread, I remember smiles on the faces of my goofy relatives.
During the week when my relatives worked and went to school, my father would take my brother and I on elaborate, usually improvised bike rides throughout downtown Montreal, often crossing the Jacques-Cartier bridge`. One regular stop was at a cramped steakhouse on Saint-Laurent called Schwartz’s. Rain or shine, there was a line outside the historical deli. Inside on the walls were pictures of Celine Dion, The Rolling Stones and Jerry Lewis enjoying of the restaurant’s world famous smoked meat sandwiches.
The sandwich itself was intimating. Layer upon layer of ropy red meat, clamped loosely between two thin pieces of rye bread. Though it often slowed us down on the way back to Grandma’s house, we had the taste of adventure in our bellies...
