From Côte St. Luc to the Plateau, I was told that the best route was Fleet eastbound which would became Van Horne, and still further east, then a right on Parc and there I would be. I puttered along in my sixteen-year old Honda Civic, frost heaves jamming the tires into the wheelbase, and here are a few things that I saw as I bounced and jangled through Outremont: a health food store for pets; the Mountain from the north; white, oval street signs; big, handsome houses; the signature elegant (but surely impractical?) spiral staircases of Montreal.

Barreling down Parc I wanted to turn left on Mont Royal, but it looked dangerous and I’m not sure it’s legal. And then it was too late for any lefts until after the Esplanade and the labyrinthine construction zone below it. My Honda and I gracefully banked onto Avenue des Pins and then left onto St. Laurent and back up in the direction we’d come. I was looking for a place called Lele da Cuca, a Brazilian-Mexican restaurant where I was to join my wife, my wife’s godmother and the godmother’s friend. The latter two I had not met, and naturally I wanted to be on time. I have a, somewhat deserved, reputation for being late, and I was, but only by five minutes. Not nearly as late as the others. They didn’t show up for another three-quarters of an hour. In the interim, I sat, I drummed my fingers, I regarded the wooden masks on the wall, I found a copy of the Mirror to read, I drank copious amounts of water. It may surprise you to learn that this piece is meant to be a restaurant review, but it is, and it shall now fulfill that purpose.

First, the atmosphere: a small room painted lime green and lemon yellow (which, I think, are the colors of the Brazilian flag); masks and instruments from the appropriate countries on the walls (they looked appropriate anyway. I can’t confirm their provenance); ugly, comfortable, plastic folding chairs; colorful and slightly shabby tables; a portly, amiable, but not overly solicitous waiter. I have a feeling that he’s the owner. He indulged my finger-drumming wait, my non-ordering wait, and was happy to let me use his phone to make a plaintive call to my wife after half and hour of intensive water-drinking. But I digress. The music was bossa nova and quiet, which suited me. The lighting was low, which also suited me. In all, the place has the relaxed charm that I associate with Brazil, although I’ve never been there and know not at all whereof I speak.

Now to the food: Four people ate, four people were happy with their food. The age spread at our table was thirty-one to fifty-something. At least one of the palates (not mine) is sophisticated. The table d’hôte started with a good, creamy vegetable soup. I warn you that it was extremely hot, just shy of boiling. My father would have been happy with it as his main criteria for excellence in restaurant fare is that it burns his tongue. Something to do with the fear of bacteria instilled in him by my granny. But back to the matter at hand: Like a lot of places here, Lele da Cuca is b.y.o.b. Our waiter let us absorb one of our two bottles before bringing us the main course, and that, in my opinion, is well-timed service. Commensurate with the bossa nova rhythm in the background, nothing was rushed. I had a vegetarian enchilada, which I liked a lot. It came with very good rice and beans and was striped with tomato sauce and sour cream. There was some kind of melted cheese involved and, among the several vegetables, I remember a good quantity of cabbage and grated carrot. It all tasted fresh and finely cooked. Also at the table were: chicken with mole sauce; grilled shrimp; and something else, which I can’t remember. I tasted the chicken and the shrimp and thought them both very good. Another bottle of wine was emptied during and after the eating of the above and it was all very leisurely. After a nice span of time, after, say, half an hour, we were offered chocolate cake or banana pie. They were both delicious but not as delicious as the coffee, which was the best I’ve ever had in a restaurant. I’m not exaggerating. It was strong and I didn’t dare finish it for fear of waking up in the middle of the night when it got around to being digested.

I woke up anyhow, but that may have been due to the wine, which, I learned over dinner, metabolizes in such a way that it transforms into a stimulant just when you hope to be dropping below your dream world into the dark waters down there, and you wake up with no possibility of sleeping again. But I wasn’t unhappy to be awake: it was dawn, I think it was raining a little, and my senses were sated by the blessed memory of a good meal.