Coming home to Joe Beef.

By Tracey Hill for Curtains Up

I will NOT discuss the food at Joe Beef.  I will NOT go into flavor, spice, inventive combinations, local produce and smart presentation.

Nope…no way, José.

Expounding upon the humble, yet other-worldly savors that tempted our picky, hard-to-please palates is something I will leave to my colleague, Chef Michael Minorgan, whose eagerly anticipated review of Joe Beef is just around the corner.

I’m NOT going into detail about the Bloody Caesar cocktail, crammed with an impressive crab claw, gingerly presented with a teetering oyster atop a Mason jar like a crusty hammock, itching to be toppled and slurped.

I’m NOT here to elucidate upon the oyster selections that vary in size, origin and texture. NOT to mention the perfect side sauces, or mountain of horseradish that await the perfect bite & gulp. I’m NOT a purist when the accompanying toppings are this fresh.

The petal-soft, shaved ham entrée (smoked in-house, no less) is served with sharp Quebec cheese, cheese Madelaines and a tangy sauce that’s  too meritorious to describe. So I won’t.

My dining companion, Joe, chose the sweetbreads and Brussels sprouts, and his spoon-licking grunts and slick smiles handily betrayed his opinion of the main course. NOT much to say, quite frankly.

I opted for the scallop and gnocchi dish which can only be described as…never mind.

I’m here to discuss something altogether different; Experience.

The kind of experience you get when you travel to a foreign but oddly familiar place, or like flying home after a long absence and re-discovering that intangible feeling that makes home so familiar.

So fasten your seat belts, because this is going to be an interesting ride.

Before even being seated, the sensory taxation of having to read an overhead chalkboard menu in the dimly-lit, noisy crush of the incommodious space wasn’t a great start. Plopping down into our table-for-two near the tiny bar, we glumly questioned our choice. We were, quite frankly, a bit lost.

Then Morgane showed up.

Ahhhh…Morgane, the whip-smart, charming Belgian serveuse who had us at ‘hello’.

We hadn’t yet tasted a bite, and we were drooling over her enthusiastic menu descriptions, suggestions and ardent negotiation of pairing our course preferences (which she wholeheartedly endorsed) with the most provocative of local wines.

The experience was pleasantly at lift-off with only the slightest bit of initial turbulence.

Then owner, David McMillan came stalking over to our table.  (Co-Owner Fréderic Morin was not in house)

McMillan introduced himself after we tipsily created a cute version of Stonehenge with our oyster shells and crushed ice.

McMillan didn’t bother to make small talk or schmooze us. He was just plunking down into the banquette to shoot the breeze with a couple of giddy new patrons. His down-to-earth banter was all chill and no frill.

Cruising altitude…

He is direct, his presence commanding, and his philosophy unerringly frank, if not bold;

“I am right, the customer is wrong, and if you don’t like it here…or you lay a hand on one of my female servers, you’re out. It’s not complicated for me.”

Now most people would call him arrogant and overly autocratic, but I say he’s confident, ballsy and he knows he’s doing things right. Many restaurateurs want desperately to come off as brash and swaggering, but until now, I’ve never been convinced by anyone.

He’s neither cocky nor irresponsible with his sense of home-spun genius and downright respect for his roots as a Quebecer. When you know where you come from, you have a clear path as to where you’re going.

Trays in an upright position…

Polishing-off our home-made ice cream dessert was a safe, sweet touch-down and as we looked around, we smilingly realized that we were ready to take the Joe Beef voyage all-over again.

The experience was whole. Whole in that we felt nourished, our intellect was kindled, the conversation scintillating and the senses enveloped in folksy-nobility.

After our meal, we were charitably granted a tour of the courtyard gardens as well as the meat smoker at the back. Rows upon rows of greens and vegetation sprang up from loamy soil, perfuming the damp evening air with a mixture of herb and grit. I was cautioned not to go too close to the smokers because of the soot, but I couldn’t resist an intimate, muscular sniff of wood and meat drippings.

Who does this? Seriously? Who grows their own produce, smokes their own meat and serves it up with French-Canadian ‘je ne sais quoi’ attitude in a compact, homey, unassuming Griffintown eatery? Who uses tea-towels instead of dinner napkins, mismatched chinaware, never takes party reservations and doesn’t really care what you think of them?

Joe Beef, that’s who.