French For “Just a Little Weird”

Imagine a French farmhouse—rough-hewn wood floors, wainscoting a-plenty—situated in a strip mall (Plaza St. Hubert) and decorated on a Burgundy bender. That might partially explain the staghorn beer taps and the upside-down house dangling over the raised table in the center of Montréal Plaza’s main space. Which is to say, this place brings just enough whimsy to entice, but not overwhelm, both in the space and on the (small) plates. Arctic char tartare with crispy little bits of puffed rice for texture, fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with duck bolognese and ricotta, whelk gratiné with miso (basically escargot with an umami uppercut)—it all sounds a little off but somehow works perfectly. Just like the space itself.

Haiti of the North

That a white brick house at this latitude can transport you to the Carribbean speaks volumes about the execution—and the 101-proof rhum—of Agrikol. Restaurateur Jen Agg partnered with Win Butler and Régine Chassagne of Arcade Fire to open the place. Agg cooked up the design, from the open mezzanine with iron railings to the two-story bar to the painting by her husband, Roland Jean, while chef Marc Villanueva brings the unpretentious Haitian fare. Agrikol, dim and loud and alive, feels a little like New Orleans after dark. The menu’s packed with flavor, including mouth-exploding ceviche, tender griot, pork and beef spiced and cooked to perfection. Bring a group, order the Ti Ponch (a bottle of rhum with mixers and fixings), and try not to have a blast.

What Montreal Tastes Like

You have permission to roll your eyes at the thought of a hyper-locavore restaurant eager to teach you a lesson about how Food Really Works: La Récolte in La Petite-Patrie only adheres to the locavore part. In a studiously small space with slightly dorky paintings of famous celebs, you’re treated to dish after dish designed to underline just what Montreal’s surrounding farmland can deliver. Its menu, always changing, can only be discussed in the past tense, and so: The gaspacho, yellow and peppery and concealing shrimp just-so, tasted like summer, full stop. Mozzarella di buffala came with roti and minced eggplant that had been marinated in olive oil and apple cider vinegar. (“Lemons aren’t local, so we use a lot of apple cider vinegar” partner Denis Vukmirovic explained.) The duck breast—three big hunks, cooked to perfection, pink with a crackling exterior—paired with homemade gnocchi seared off a bit on the edges and deserving of its own dish. And then came four mini beignets, filled with a cheesecake batter of sorts, a strawberry sauce drizzle on the side. If the gaspacho tasted like summer, the beignets tasted like summer sex, in a studio apartment with no AC, only fans, with someone you just met and you aren’t sure you like, but right now, oh god, what’s happening is beautiful. You get the same double-edged regret at the end, too: that you maybe went too far, and that it didn’t last longer.