Last updated: October 19, 2026
I can still taste it. That’s the problem. It’s been two weeks and I can still taste it.
Skip Breakfast on Purpose
It was the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend and I was in Montreal — no plan, just a friend’s couch in the Plateau and a list of places I’d screenshotted from people I trust. The air smelled like woodsmoke and wet leaves, and every bakery window on Saint-Viateur had these golden things glowing in it like they were showing off. I skipped breakfast on purpose. Rookie mistake? No — strategy.
Chérie, It’s October
By noon I was starving and cold, and I ducked into this tiny place on a side street — twelve seats, handwritten menu, the kind of spot where the owner looks up when the bell rings and actually smiles. I asked what was good and she laughed like I’d told a joke. “Chérie,” she said, “it’s October. The tourtière.”
Now. I’ve had tourtière before. Dry, dense, the sad slice at an office holiday party that someone’s aunt made. I was prepared for that. What came out was not that.
The Crust Shattered
The crust shattered. Actually shattered — flakes everywhere, all over my sweater, and I did not care. Inside: pork and potato and this warmth of clove and cinnamon and something I couldn’t name, steaming up into my face. I sat there in my coat, flakes down my front, and I made a sound I’m not going to describe. The woman next to me nodded like, yeah. Yeah.
I asked the owner about the recipe and she waved her hand — “grand-maman,” like that explained everything, and honestly it did. Some recipes aren’t recipes. They’re someone’s grandmother standing behind you saying more butter, don’t be shy.
Jean-Talon in October
I ordered a second slice. For “later.” I ate it walking to the Jean-Talon Market, flakes still falling, and bought apples I didn’t need and cheese I absolutely needed. The market was all pumpkins and squash and these massive sunflowers, and I bought a still-warm apple cider donut and ate that too. It was that kind of day. No regrets. Zero.
Here’s what I keep coming back to: nobody was performing. No tasting menu, no foam, no tweezers. Just a woman, her grandmother’s recipe, a twelve-seat room, and a crust that shattered. The fanciest meal of my year, and it cost less than my brunch order back home. To die for? Honestly, yeah. I’d drive six hours for it again tomorrow.
Thank Me Later
If you go to Montreal in October — and you should, the whole city smells like cinnamon — skip the line at the famous place. Find the tiny one with the handwritten menu. Order what the owner’s grandmother made. Thank me later.
If this pie sends you to Montreal — and I hope it does — come hungry for two things, not one: the best poutine in Montreal deserves its own lunch, counter stool and all. And if you can choose the month, choose October — the Jean-Talon pumpkins are piled three high, the bagels are still warm at 8 AM, and Montreal in October is the city’s whole personality in one month.
— Emily