Sunday, October 25, 2009. Quebec. French Mass. Hobbit. Tango. We were on the riverfront in Quebec City when I awakened. What a magnificent sight to see when I pulled the stateroom curtains open! There, right across the quai, was the majestic Chateau Frontenac, looking like a castle. We are directly across from the old walled town.
I've visited Montreal, but this was my first time in Quebec. It will certainly not be my last. It was love at first sight. It has many of the charms of New Orleans, but in an utterly different place and climate, and very different people. In the early 1700s, Quebec and New Orleans were both French colonies, settled by a lot of the same people. France lost both cities in the middle of that century, but the French culture was already established. A century older, Quebec held onto its Gallicism more pervasively than New Orleans did. But to a guy like me, whose mother grew up in a French-speaking family, and who's used to seeing French names on all kinds of things around town, Quebec felt familiar and welcoming.
I'm glad we came here on a Sunday. Without a newsletter to publish, I could start walking around soon after the ship docked. I could also attend Mass at the Basilica, a beautiful church loaded with gold leaf. A man passing out booklets with the prayers and songs asked me, "Parlez vous Français?"
"No," I said. "But I think I can sing it."
He nodded. "It's all right. Same God."
I had no idea what the priest was saying in his sermon, but the other ceremonies were easy enough. Not just the same God, but the same Mass, all over the world. I didn't know many of the French songs, but I read music well enough that I could keep up, and even get a good review at the end from the people in front of me. The woman who led the songs really deserved the accolades. She was operatic.
It was overcast when I entered, but emerging from the church at around noon I stepped into sunshine, and began a happy walk around a very appealing city. The old town of Quebec is surrounded by walls. The buildings and streets were the same size and laid out much like those in the French Quarter, but the architecture was different. (The French Quarter is really the Spanish Quarter in design.) Many were covered with cobblestones. Why did we cover those over in New Orleans?
As I walked around, I kept coming back to questions like that. Although Quebec does it with complete honesty, the Francophone aspect of everything adds to its charm. It's like the difference between restaurants named "La Cuisine" and "The Kitchen." New Orleans is famous for putting a French spin on a lot of things. But it's been a long time since there was any real substance to it. Of course, the old Antoine's menu, which was entirely in French, would not be tenable now. But I think the French Quarter could benefit from some more Frenchness.
Especially on Bourbon Street. The part of Quebec that reminded me of that alimentary canal was the pedestrian mall leading from the boardwalk along the river to the Old Town. It was chock-a-block with souvenir shops and cafes, in a density even greater than that of Bourbon Street. Much of the merchandise was kitschy, and the food was tilted toward tourists. But it all looked pretty good. One of our cruisers said she went to a café called Lapin Saute ("the cooked rabbit") and loved the house specialty rabbit cooked four ways on a single plate. They had lots of other good stuff, too.
Perhaps this is another example of something I've noticed on the French Riviera. There, the best restaurants are not hidden in the middle of town, but right there on the street along the beach. One restaurant after another, all excellent.
The greatest difference between this tourist strip and Bourbon Street was that Quebec was clean. Nothing sleazy. Every restaurateur and shop owner I talked to was smiling and friendly, without a hint of the danger that one feels from their counterparts in our town. Maybe that's not right for Funky Town, but it sure is refreshing.
My walk around Quebec's old town transformed in its mission to a search for lunch. Lots of restaurants. Half of them were French bistros. About a third of them were Italian. (The Italians are taking over the world.) The remainder were sandwich shops, sushi bars, Middle Eastern cafes--same stuff I saw in Halifax but in smaller numbers.
I peeked into dozens of restaurants, not seeing exactly what I was looking for. I had plenty of time, and there were plenty of restaurants. I passed through the gate in the massive wall into the modern downtown. It was much less scenic, save for the vistas that sometimes opened up. Quebec's downtown towers over the surrounding terrain. But the cafes kept coming as I continued up Rue St. Jean. The Bistro Retro looked perfect--but it wasn't open for lunch. I crossed the street to a place with the unpromising name "Le Hobbit." Inside, it looked good: white tablecloths, thick old walls. The menu was the one I was looking for.
I went in and started with the local beer, La Barberie. (Canada is a dedicated beer-drinking country, even in nice restaurants.) The waiter disappointed me by saying that the specials on the board were only for dinner. I would loved to have tasted one of them: lamb sweetbreads, something I've never seen on a menu. He steered me away from the lentil soup to the onion soup, advised me to get the mussels, and recommended the entree of duck confit. All this was as good as advertised, if delivered at a glacial pace. No problem: was in no hurry. I finished up with a slice of pear pie, as beautiful as it was good.
Le Hobbit calls itself a "resto." I saw that word on the marquees of a lot of eateries. Is this an emerging new word? Somewhere between a restaurant and a bistro? I will keep that in mind next time I categorize restaurants in my guides.
I ate too much of that resto's food. My plan had been to meet some Eat Clubbers for dinner, but after I made it back to the ship, cleaned myself up, and took a nap, it was almost six, and I wasn't even slightly hungry. Too bad. On the way back from my first trip out, I spotted a couple of what looked like really fine restaurants--one of them with a stunning dining room and a fascinating menu. If Mary Ann had been along, she would have forced me to go back out again. But I pooped out.
I did get a touch peckish at around nine, when the ship sailed away. I had dinner onboard, in Tango Tango, alleged to serve tapas and Mexican food. Well, it was all Tex-Mex, and not very good at that. It started well enough, with an assortment of three salsas. And the tortilla soup wasn't bad, with chicken and avocados. But the cheese enchiladas engendered very little interest. Good thing all the portions were small. The supper closed out with a well-made flan--softer and with a more elegant sauce than usually turns up in Mexican restaurants.
I banged out a newsletter for my fellow travelers and delivered it to all thirty-three cabins. I was amazed that I still had the energy to do that, after walking at least six miles around Quebec, much of it uphill. Coming back, I took the funicular, which didn't make much sense, since that was the downhill part of the trip. I looked forward to sleeping very well, and I did.
Le Hobbit. Quebec, Canada: 700 Rue St Jean. 418-647-2677.
