I think that I will always be that girl who waddles out of a restaurant in the manner of a heavily pregnant woman, my gait slow and staggering from the mix of overindulgent agony and gastronomic bliss. Never is this more true than when I am in Montreal, a city so abundant in truly wonderful dining options that eating less than 2-3 dinners a night should be criminal. Like my friends, you may laugh, but for anyone that has been to this city, we know that it is no laughing matter. However, on my most recent trip, the sixth in the past four years, I found myself failing in this mission. But with the food being, as it always is, excellent, I suppose that my complaints would at this point be excessively greedy. So without further ado, I present to you my meal at Hvor, my favorite of this trip - a meal so delicious that there was neither need nor desire for anything else.
I have never liked crème brûlée. I think it's the sugar. The sensation of biting into it and how it sticks to your teeth afterwards has never been enjoyable for me. But it seems that every now and then, there's a chef that proves me wrong, and I find myself digging into one that is so insanely delicious that I can't even begrudgingly admit it's good. I can do nothing less than fall into whole-hearted admiration. And this is where I found myself upon the last course at Hvor, sitting in a stunned stupor, with dinner plate eyes, and neglecting my dining companion as I repeated, "oh my god, oh my god" to myself over and over. They asked me afterwards if I'd like the lights dimmed so that I could clean the plate in privacy, but I don't think that they realized that my reply of 'yes' was not, in fact, in jest. "While you're at it, would they mind vacating the kitchen for a few minutes?" Sigh, if only.
Date: May 2017
Camera: Canon 6D