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It's easy to be confused here. Like a restaurant, there are places to eat (a couple of dozen seats plus a small oyster bar), a kitchen with chefs, a menu chalked onto a wall; it would be easy to think that this is a restaurant.
But this is Joe Beef, the name (and bathroom door) taken from the long-gone Old Montreal tavern famous for hearty meals and comforting the afflicted. This small bistro, on a seedy section of Notre Dame opposite the Corona Theatre, is closer in spirit to whatever is playing across the street than to its namesake.
Think of an evening here as a play by Dario Fo or Ionescu. As you enter, you are walking onto the set of a restaurant which happens to be named Joe Beef. You are paying for this (even as you pay for good theatre) but you are part of the show. The directors are young but they already have a couple of hits. David McMillan is late of Globe and Rosalie; and Frederic Morin was also with Globe. They have come together to present Montrealers with their latest creation for, so far, an unlimited engagement.
The stage is set, the cast rehearses every night (excepting Sunday and Monday) and knows their lines; all they need is us, the supporting players, to fill in the necessary roles of gourmet, gourmand, hero and fool.
While I wait for my wife to join me on Valentine's Day evening, the play begins. A woman leaves her table and comes upstage to McMillan, who is shucking oysters at the bar. "I want to trade in my husband for your chef," she swoons. "The meal was fabulous."
"Go ask Fred," says McMillan on cue. "He may be interested."
"Don't you agree that's a good idea?" she says looking at me as she exits for the bathroom, stage left. "Wouldn't you trade in your husband for a chef?"
When we do order, I see that the stagecraft extends into the kitchen. I would like to tell you what we ordered for dinner and I would like to tell you what we ate, but they would not necessarily be the same thing. Morin is at his best when he feels tempted by serendipity. So the slices of raw filet (think of seared tuna slices rather than carpaccio) topped with freshly grated horseradish also came with a surprise: succulent fried oysters.
The "skate and fries," which is supposed to be a skate wing covered with Montreal steak spices and cooked like a steak, came pan fried over squid rings in a sauce bourgogne. Not that we complained. Part of the script here is discovering what the chef anticipates you will like, not necessarily what you thought you wanted. In other words, come here with an appetite, not an opinion. "I'm thinking that we should close Saturday nights" muses McMillan over a glass of wine, "I'm not crazy about the customers' attitude on Saturday."
Asked for and received, however, were marrow bones covered with a magnificent reduction of oxtail meat. It had stewed for hours and each bite was ambrosial. An un-requested hot chicken sandwich starter, complete with white bread, gravy and canned peas, also found its way to our table — with lobster instead of chicken — while the peas were an Italian bottled variety that had great texture and flavour. The key to this sandwich, as to much of the food, was that it should confuse the eyes and astound the taste buds. Similarly, the pasta and meatball came with one giant meatball, the fig Newton dessert was huge and home-made and unlike any "cookie" I have ever eaten. An extra order went back to the house for our daughter who, a day later, pronounced it superb. Unlike whatever plays at the Corona, this is theatre for the mouth.
The supporting roles that night were good too. There was a guy inked with tattoos, wearing a top hat; a Rumanian plumber with biceps the size of a globe; a Latino expat ("Call me Jorge but that's not my name") who was planning to bring his mother here for dinner when she arrived from Columbia ("She'll love this place"); and those were the ones just near our table.
Here's a caveat. There are two kinds of restaurant reviews. Those in which the reviewer is a sort of everyman, seeing what the food is like and dining incognito. That's what we do here at Montrealfood most of the time. Then there is another, older tradition, in which the reviewer is known by the owner and sees what a place can offer. McMillan and Morin know me. I have followed them ever since I wrote an article for the Gazette, a few years ago, about high class resto poutine. I met them and included their recipe (pont neuf potatoes, stilton, duck gravy) and can still taste it. So I can't claim that I was hidden. However, whether I was there or not, the woman would still have asked McMillan is she could exchange her husband for the chef, the Columbian would still want to bring his mother here, and Morin would continue to do whatever he wanted in the kitchen. And Vanya, our waitress, would still tell diners what she thinks they should order; after all, she knows what's really going on backstage.
So bottom line, would I go again? Yes, and I'll bring Mom for dinner too. Everything is on one floor, by the way, which makes for easy access for those with ambulatory problems. Parking is on the street (no valet). Prices for entrees are $10-$15 and mains $20 - $30. Extensive wine list but rather than getting a bottle, ask for a glass of whatever goes with each dish. Open Tuesday – Sat only for dinner. Reservations (call between 3 and 5 PM) a must.
—Reviewed by Barry Lazar
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