Earlier this evening I met a friend for a beer at NYK on Bleury. Wooden beams, not too noisy, no blaring big-screen sports. We could talk!
A wall has been knocked out and the decor is much improved since I last came to this address in the late 80s. (Am I dating myself? Oh dear.) Back then it was a single room, dull, with two disgruntled young men serving sausages. Their kitchen area was a hotplate and grill in the window that ran the width of the narrow room and faced the street. Bratwurst, Knackwurst, Debreziner. First les saucisses were boiled in the kind of large, dented aluminum pot I associate with army surplus stores or cottage kitchens. The kind of pot you're not supposed to use unless you want to hasten Alzheimer's. Then the cooked sausages were grilled and served with little ceremony. I remember the silhouettes of the two men against the light, plopping sausages into water, swiping mustard across buns.
One advantage to getting older has to be ability to accordion past and present.
I've been advised that I should stay on topic in a blog, so rest assured that this will somehow dovetail into the seminal influences of Grimm's and Alice in Wonderland: living in Montreal and how the city changes.
In my fiction I rarely write in first person. Obviously, I can--in emails and letters. I seem less sure about adopting *I* as a public voice. So here's the experiment. A blog.