Credit: Matthieu Joannon on Unsplash

Why Montreal Might Be the Greatest Food City in North America

10 Minute read

02 Sep 2025

Dan Ahdoot

Writer

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Comedian and writer Dan Ahdoot takes on the role of culinary diplomat in Montreal, where foie gras, poutine, and warm service make the case for North America’s greatest food city.

Sometimes the best way to settle a fight isn’t with words—it’s with bread. Or, in Montreal’s case, with bread, wine, foie gras, and enough butter to make Julia Child blush. With the U.S. dollar flexing harder than it has in years, and Canada giving us side-eye over trade spats, I decided to take on the role of culinary diplomat. My mission: eat Montreal into submission.

And Montreal, my friends, is the greatest food city in North America. I don’t say that lightly. New York, LA, Chicago, Mexico City—they all have the hype, but Montreal has something the others don’t: food so good it feels like Paris, service so warm it feels like therapy, and a 30% currency discount that makes it all taste like Costco samples.

Night One: Mon Lapin

My first stop was Mon Lapin, recently crowned “Best Restaurant in Canada.” In ALL of Canada. Sorry Manitoba, go back to…whatever you do there.

Now, I don’t trust “Best Of” lists. They’re usually sponsored by the Tourism Board of Bribery. (Except the Sanpellegrino®-sponsored World’s 50 Best, which is always correct!)

But sitting at the dimly lit bar, menu in hand, I was smitten. Each dish was listed with exactly three words, like tabs pulled off a Wheel of Ingredients board: “Tuna, nectarines, shishitos.” “Baccalao, chicharron, radish.” At first, it read like a ransom note. Then the food arrived.

The tuna was draped like silk over blistered shishitos with a sauce that tasted like someone liquefied a nectarine and taught it French. The salt cod and potato dip came flanked by two perfect pork skins—surf and turf as interpreted by a stoner genius.

And then…the croque-pétoncle. Their signature. A play on a croque monsieur, but instead of ham and cheese, the filling was a mousse of scallops so fresh I think they were still…swimming? Do scallops swim? Anyway, the sandwich comes served with a dipping sauce that was basically upscale green onion Ranch. It was so good I briefly considered applying for Canadian citizenship. I stumbled out onto the dark street satisfied, tipsy, and already scheming where to get Nexium.

Razor Clams at Mon Lapin. Credit: Dan Ahdoot

Lunch at Wilensky’s

The next day, around noon (because if you did dinner right, breakfast is cancelled), I headed to Wilensky’s Light Lunch. They serve exactly one thing: the Wilensky Special. A small sandwich of grilled beef salami and bologna, slathered in mustard on a kaiser roll. No substitutions, no questions, no fries. You order it, you eat it, you leave, you smile.

It’s the kind of sandwich you eat on a park bench in the sun, nursing a mild hangover, and thinking, “Yeah, I get it. Simplicity. Also, my breath could kill a raccoon.”

Beba: Jewish-Argentine-Montreal Madness

By then my brother Dave had flown in from New York. We went drinking in Verdun (basically Brooklyn with French subtitles) before our dinner reservation at Beba, a humble corner joint that might be the most original restaurant in Montreal.

Chef Ari Schor’s vision is what happens when a Jewish grandmother, an Argentine grill master, and a Montreal hipster walk into a bar and decide to feed you. Every dish had a “vehicle.”

Caviar → knish.
Mackerel → homemade bagel.
Foie gras → stuffed in a date.
Bone marrow → on pan con tomate with anchovy.
Sweetbreads → a paella that could make a Spaniard weep.

It was brilliant, deranged, and made me realize I’ve been wasting my life using bagels as bagels instead of as edible Uber rides.

Credit: Dan Ahdoot

Kouign Amann, Larrys & More

The next morning’s hangover cure came courtesy of Au Kouign Amann, a bakery that makes exactly one thing: kouign amann (Pronounced Queen Amann. Don’t ask). If a croissant and a crème brûlée had a child out of wedlock, this would be it. Except here it comes as a dense, sticky cake so irresistible, no amount of Ozempic could make you put it down.

For lunch we hit Larrys, a place so effortlessly cool I want it to be my neighborhood joint. Their kedgeree—a British-Indian dish of curried rice, egg, and smoked haddock—hits you with so much flavor your eyes roll back like you’re at a Pentecostal revival. Dave got the steak with chimichurri, but really it was soupy chimichurri with steak, and no one complained. We washed it down with a chilled red Syrah so good we blacked out on its name. Mission accomplished.

Dinner was at Au Pied de Cochon, Montreal’s foie gras temple. This is the place that invented Duck in a Can: foie gras, duck confit, and pork belly literally stuffed into a can. The point of this restaurant is to leave with gout, and I salute that mission.

Poutine, Pastrami & Smash Burgers at 3 A.M.

By the time my friends arrived, the restaurants got bigger and blander. But we did hit La Banquise, Montreal’s 3 a.m. poutine palace. Picture fries, cheese curds, and gravy, then add smoked meat, mac n’ cheese balls, or whatever combination your drunk brain can handle. The menu is as long as Anna Karenina, and WAY more fun to read.

I went with La Panoramix—smoked meat, mushrooms, and sour cream. Reader, I was very happy.

Another drunken honorable mention goes to the smash burgers at Abracadabra. If you’re craving a taste of the U.S., this place delivers. The patties are top-notch, smashed to smithereens, and smothered in onions caramelized so perfectly they tasted like candy.

Also: the bathroom is super clean. I know this not because I used it, but because while we were there a girl dropped a glass bottle and cut her foot. My friend—an orthopedic surgeon—nursed her foot back to health in the sink and charged her nothing. Canada DOES have free healthcare.

La Panoramix at La Banquise. Credit: Dan Ahdoot

Why Montreal Wins

But here’s the thing—it’s not just the food. It’s the people.

At Mon Lapin, Rose the server told me, “If you need more wine, just scream my name; ROSE!” So I did. Loudly. Multiple times. The whole staff joined in, chanting her name like she was a rock star, until she came running with another bottle and a smile.

At Beba, one innocent “What’s Calvados?” to our server turned into a full-on apple brandy tasting with the whole staff, culminating in a goofy fake boomerang video.

Remember that wine we forgot at Larrys? Neither did we. A week later, I called the restaurant during peak brunch chaos. Instead of hanging up, the manager scribbled my number and texted me a screenshot of the bottle an hour later. In New York, I would’ve been cursed out in three languages before the second ring.

I love Montreal, and I’m smitten by its people. A reminder that no matter what’s happening between our countries, they’re the best neighbors we could ever hope for.

And that’s the city: food as good as Paris, service kinder than your therapist, prices cheaper than your co-pay. If Montreal ever needed a crest, it wouldn’t be a fleur-de-lis. It would be a drunk guy stumbling out of a restaurant, belly full, yelling “ROSE!”