Jules Nolan

Sometimes when people travel, weird and unexplainable things happen. These are the stories that are recalled at dinners and cocktail parties. Usually these stories are embellished until they hardly resemble the actual events. I keep a travel journal to combat this creative embellishment, to keep an accurate account of the details. And I swear this really happened.

It was early fall a few years ago and I was craving a little Paris. I wanted the wine, the outdoor cafes and the sexy murmur of French being spoken all around me. I wanted tiny cups of espresso and chilly, rainy evenings amid beautifully dressed people. I needed a proper assiette du fromage (As with all things, this sounds so much better in French, but simply means plate of cheese). And my marriage was screaming for a little romantic booster shot.

Sadly, my banker was advising against unnecessary expenditures, especially travel to France, where my money is worth 30% less than it is worth here. The fromage alone would set me back $30 or so. With Paris out of my reach, I reached for her beautiful little step-sister – Montreal, Canada.

Montreal is an amazing weekend getaway from this part of the world. With nonstop flights from $300 and beautiful hotels at 75% of what we would pay in a US city, it’s a bargain. The city has the best of both worlds. Ancient buildings and charming cafes on cobblestone streets which are just blocks away from contemporary Montreal, with its soaring, sleek hi-rises and neon-chic clubs. But the cincher for me is the food - rich, succulent French cuisine – and wine with every meal.

We ate as the Europeans do, at a snail’s pace, late into the night, in small dimly lit restaurants with the candles twinkling and the silverware clinking against the plates. The musical lilt of hushed French lovers at nearby tables surrounded us. They were professing undying love, or wistfully recalling gut wrenching heartbreak, or discussing orthodontia for all I know. It didn’t matter. It all sounded lovely.

On this night, the hubby and I were at a small martini bar in the Old Town section, having a warm up before our late dinner reservations. Generally we make an effort to meet new people when we travel, and tonight was no exception. We sat at our table, within elbow distance of the table next to us, and began a conversation with a nice young Canadian couple. They left as they were called to their dinner reservation and from a few tables away I heard a voice. “Whaddayouz, Americanz or sumpthin?”

At a table to my right a small, late 40’s, well-dressed man who looked like Joe Pesci (from My Cousin Vinny) was addressing me. “Yes sir we are.” Was my reply. “And you don’t sound so French Canadian your-own-self.” I smirked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yea, I ain’t” he said. “And neither is she” He motioned with glee at a stunning, young woman, approaching. She was gliding toward the table, leading with her protruding hipbones. Her long, blonde hair swung back and forth across her flawlessly made-up face as she glided up to us in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Allo. I ahm Tatiahhnna” she offered. Her Russian accent made her sound exactly like Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of my youth. She looked bored and serious and far too young to be this man’s date.

“Yea, and I’m Antony. Youz wanna join us?” So Mike and I picked up our apple-tinis and sat with this unusual couple. We established that Antony was a “businessman” who worked in “dvd distribution” and that Tatianna was his “sometimes girlfriend” when he was in town.

“So where youz eatin’ t’night?” Antony wanted to know. We told him the name of the restaurant that was recommended by the hotel and he replied “Awww, that’s crap. That’s for tourists. Youz are comin’ wit us.” We finished our drinks making small talk with Antony as Tatiannia silently smoked long, slender, dark brown cigarettes and scanned the room with a suspicious gaze.

The four of us climbed into Antony’s emerald green Jaguar parked right out in front of the bar. “This is gonna be some real, good Italian food” remarked Antony on the drive to the restaurant. “Youz’ll think your right in &*^%-ing Sicily.” And we sped off into the Montreal night, leaving the quaint cobblestones of Old Town and heading for the flash of Downtown.

We pulled up to the restaurant and Antony let us out of the car as he parked. Mike and I approached the door and were immediately intercepted by the maitre de. This small man sported a black pompadour and a dour, no-nonsense look. He was shaking his head, holding up his hands, his palms forward – the international signal to stop. “I am sorry.” He was saying as he approached. “We have nothing. There is nothing for you here tonight.”

Then the maitre de saw Antony and his demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, Antonio, I didn’t know it was you! It is so good to see you again. And you brought your friends. Mario will be so happy to see you!”

“Yea, geez, I’m sorry Felix. I shoulda called. Therez gonna be 6 or 8. You want we should wait?” asked Antony gushing charm.

“No, no of course, of course, right this way.” Replied Felix, and he showed us to the private bar where we met Antony’s friend, Pauley, another rather homely man, late 40’s, with his date, a stunning young woman from Trinidad in her early 20’s. She was also a “sometimes girlfriend”. I was beginning to feel like I had been plunked down in the middle of an episode of the Sopranos.

After several rounds of Sambucco (an Italian liquor), we were seated at the “A” table in the center of the restaurant. Antony told the waiter to “tell Bruno (the chef) I’m here wit friendz. He knowz what I like.” The meal that followed was unbelievably delicious, with course after course of incredible Italian food. When Mike tried to pay the bill, the waiter waved him away as if he was an annoying housefly.

Then the music started, and it was time for me to give back a little. A pianist was playing Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett favorites, but without a vocalist. Being a bar performer, I couldn’t resist but to take the microphone and croon out a few tunes. The owner then came out to compliment me and Antony for his great taste in new friends. I sang, Mike danced with the “sometime girlfriends” and Antony himself got up and danced around the dining room, waving his cloth napkin and requesting his favorite songs.

Then suddenly the mood of the room changed completely. Antony sat down and began a heated discussion with new arrivals, men that had migrated to our table. I don’t’ know what they were talking about, but almost immediately the other diners in the restaurant began to leave. We were the only guests remaining, and the evening began to take on a seriously anxious tone.

As we retreated into the private bar again for a night-cap, I could see that the “sometimes girlfriends” were also growing quite tense, scanning the room more frequently, and making their way toward the door. It was as this point that I whispered to Mike. “I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere good. Let’s 86 this joint.” We hurriedly said that our “car” had come for us and ducked out the front door before there was much time for discussion.

“So, they were mob right?” I asked Mike.
“Had to be.” He replied.

We quickly flagged a cab at the next block and I asked the driver as we turned the corner toward our hotel, “Hey, was that restaurant a mob hangout?”

“I don’t know nothing,” was his reply.

Mike and I exchanged knowing looks.

The next day as Mike and I were enjoying our morning coffee and pain au chocolate, we giggled about the previous night’s shenanigans as we grabbed the morning paper. Splashed across the front page of the Montreal Daily News was a picture of the restaurant we had visited the previous night with the headline “U.S. Mob Boss Gunned Downed in Late Night Confrontation at Local Restaurant.”

I swear this story is true -all of it – except, of course, the last part about the mob hit. That I embellished – but the story is so good that it really deserved a great ending. And it’s a big hit at dinners and cocktail parties.