Once I got married but before I had a baby, I made a point every year of taking a long weekend away by myself. My preference was to spend this time in Paris, a place I know I can eat good food, stroll indiscriminately, see whatever art exhibits interest me, and smoke the odd cigarette while buzzed. But some years, for whatever reason, Paris was not possible. In these circumstances I looked around for the next best thing.
Such was the case in January 2023 when I landed in Québec City late on a quiet, snowy Friday. That year I was only able to get away for a few days, and figured nearer by was more prudent. My dad, who had been fighting cancer for several years, had just entered hospice and was rapidly weakening at home with my mom. It had been my parents who had inculcated in me a love of French Canada. Inveterate Francophiles and perennially cash strapped, they had honeymooned in Québec City. This scratched the French itch without having to leave the continent. They loved it instantly, and they took me back several times as I was growing up. I was eager to return now as an adult.
I gathered my things from the plane, got into a taxi with a Tunisian-Canadian driver, and we made our way through the quiet, dark streets to Auberge Saint-Antoine, my home for the next few days. The old town of Québec City has two parts: the upper town (Haute-Ville) and the lower town (Basse-Ville). They are connected by a funicular that takes only moments to ride. Auberge Saint-Antoine is in the Basse-Ville, on narrow cobble-stoned streets near the Saint Lawrence River. The walls are stone, the beds are fluffy and expensive-feeling, and each room is adorned with a historic artifact that helps tell the story of Old Québec. It is an intimate hotel that feels private without sacrificing any of the amenities of a larger property. It was perfect for this cozy weekend alone.
The next morning I woke up late, and bundled up tightly to walk the glorious, snowy streets. I walked through the old town, past the famous Château Frontenac, where my parents had stayed all those years ago (and seen then-President of France François Mitterrand in the lobby!). I watched enormous ice floes hurry down the Saint Lawrence river. Continuing down to the quirky Saint-Roch neighborhood, I peeked in window after window of antique stores. No longer able to resist buying a tea cup for my collection, I ducked into a small shop on Rue Saint-Joseph. The shopkeeper had been a lawyer many years ago, but started this shop at the urging of his wife, Michelle. As he was wrapping my tea cup and we were chatting precariously in my broken French, a woman walked in who clearly knew the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper encouraged me to chat with her, since “elle parle anglais!”. She confirmed that yes, she grew up in the anglophone Canadian province of Winnipeg, but had moved to QC long ago to be with her French-speaking husband. He had recently died of lung cancer. “That’s a bad one to have!” I blurted out insensitively, for whatever reason. But I told her I was truly sorry, and that my dad was battling cancer, too. She seemed to feel that I really was truly sorry, in the way that people who love people with cancer understand one another. “Well, I got two girls out of the deal. He lives on in them.”
Having walked all morning, I tucked into Restaurant La Buche for a late lunch. The atmosphere was bright and cheerful, and I was tucked at a two-top by the window. As I surveyed the menu I became aware that a live concert album of Céline Dion’s was playing throughout the restaurant. Like anyone who lived through 1997, I am aware of “My Heart Will Go On” and some of her work after that, but am less familiar with pre-Titanic Céline. A live version of (what I would later learn was) “Pour que tu m'aimes encore” pumped over the speakers, and what had begun as barely concealed head bobbing turned into full-throated singing and dancing from the entire waitstaff. One imagines this is what French Canadians might be doing behind closed doors, and I can now confirm it is. I loved the song and needed to have it immediately, as sometimes happens when you hear a song for the first time in a context that suits it perfectly. I had this happen once with Burna Boy’s “Last Last” floating down the canals of Xochimilco on a wooden boat in Mexico City. But that’s a story for another day.
Between ice skating in Place D’Youville, drinks at the Château Frontenac, and lots more shopping, I somehow found time for several opportunities to overeat French Canadian fare. One memorable meal was at Le Continental, a QC institution. I was splashing out with the selection of Québécois cheeses, steak and dessert flambéed tableside, and several glasses of tannic red wine. A lovely way to spend an evening in the snowy center of town. My waiter seemed delighted that a woman alone could pack away so much saturated fat, and after my many courses he brought a little digestif of maple liqueur, on the house. He also left his number on the back of my receipt. See ladies: men love an eater!
Another of these opportunities was at the completely perfect Aux Anciens Canadiens. For lunch they were offering a “menu formule” with choice of entrée, plat, dessert, and a glass of wine for about 40 Canadian dollars. A bargain. I was seated alone, but within earshot of a father and teenage daughter having lunch. They were on their annual ski trip, and the daughter had picked the location this year so she could practice her French, which she was doing with the waiter as her proud Dad looked on. The restaurant was mostly quiet and empty, aside from us three.
The food at Aux Anciens Canadien was delicious and classic, and I ended the meal by selecting “tarte au sucre” for dessert. I had remembered this tarte from my childhood: a sugary, sometimes maple-y pie endemic to these parts. One time when we were having dinner on a family trip in French Canada, Mom ordered two additional slices of tarte au sucre to take back to the room. This kind of gastronomic restraint was a regular feature of my family of origin. As my mom struggled to open the door to our hotel room while holding two plated slices of pie, my dad asked “Can I help you, Little Mary Two Pies?” We all dissolved in laughter in the hotel hallway, and my memory is that Mom peed her pants. She remained “Little Mary Two Pies” for many years thereafter.
Soon after I returned from Québec, my mom called to tell me dad was regularly falling, and she was unable to pick him up alone. I got in the car to go see them, Céline’s “Pour que tu m'aimes encore” still on repeat through my car speakers. It was the soundtrack to that whole next week, as dad was first in, then out of the hospital, and ultimately transferred to a bed in our living room. When I first arrived home, I sat by his side, chatting and holding his hand. He asked weakly about my trip, and I told him about my walks in the snow, the tartes au sucre, the Céline Dion. “We just love that place,” he said smiling. “I don’t know why, we just do.”
Dad passed away about a week later, at home with us. Reminiscing on the ineffable pleasures of Québec City was one of the last few cogent conversations I had with him. I’m grateful toward the end we were talking about a place he had such warm memories.
Les Bonnes Adresses:
Auberge Saint-Antoine Relais & Châteaux
8 Rue Saint-Antoine, Québec, QC G1K 3Z9, Canada
Phone: +1 418-692-2211
Restaurant La Buche
49 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 3Z2, Canada
Phone: +1 581-504-6894
Restaurant Aux Anciens Canadiens
34 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 4L6, Canada
Phone: +1 418-692-1627
Le Continental
26 Rue Saint-Louis, Québec, QC G1R 3Y9, Canada
Phone: +1 418-694-9995