The Fraudulent Piper
“This place is giving me nothing” I grumbled to the Mrs. over my third Boreale Rousse.
We were in the Cock and Bull, a St. Catherine street pub near the Forum that we frequented regularly in the 90s and less so in the 21st century as we got older and her tolerance for smoke declined along with my tolerance for my fellow drunks. However Quebec has recently joined the rest of the nanny states and provinces in banning indoor smoking in bars (which I’m opposed to in principle but as an asthmatic non-smoker thoroughly enjoy in fact, so call me a hypocrite and then call me a taxi ‘cause I’m in no condition to be driving home from this place, no sir) and we have recently resumed our patronage when visiting the former Ville Marie.
The Habs were having another underachieving Saturday night, this time against the Bruins. The bigger crowd was in the shiny new sports bar half a block away while the ol’ C&B was half full at best with dedicated local celebrants of the fermented beverage. Which is, I decided, pretty much how I like it.
Despite my positive feeling regarding my surroundings, I was still vaguely frustrated between the lackluster play of the Habs and the lack of anything interesting going on among my fellow patrons. Sure, there was the guy at the corner of the bar standing up and going through the various newspaper ads with a small flashlight despite the fact that the bar was extremely well-lit (which makes it somewhat unusual that I like the place as I generally prefer dim but not dark drinking establishments). There was also the guy who the Mrs., owing to her Mediterranean descent and Brooklyn upbringing, suspected was either the bar’s dope dealer or bookie owing to the fact that most patrons greeted him heartily while entering and leaving. However, none of them were engaged in any audible conversation of particular interest. Newspaper-and-flashlight- guy occasionally chatted with might-be-the-bookie-or-dealer-guy but mostly he read the paper and might-be-the-bookie-guy spent more time putting moves on a 38 pound blonde thing that dressed and acted like one of those young ladies who thinks she’s more attractive than she is.
It was only when we were on our last round before heading to dinner that the voice of a drunk woman opining “All Canadians secretly want to be Scottish” that my interest was piqued. Alas she didn’t say anything interesting immediately although as we were heading for the door she started discussing how Kunta Kinte became a man at 15 and was a slave in the United States at 18 and wasn’t that something. Hmph, too late for you baby, we’re off to get some ribs at the Bar B Barn.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that her first statement would come into play later that same evening. After dinner we were to rendez vous with our buddy Claude who is originally from Montreal but currently lives in NYC though we actually meet up with him more up there than down here. He and some other friends were at an Irish bar on Bishop Street. We made our way to the second floor and found the crew trapped behind a bagpipe band in full roar. Three pipers, a bass drummer and a snare drummer in full regalia blaring away at that stuff you only hear on St. Patty’s Day and Sunday mornings at bonspiels (not that I’m ever around for that, but that’s another story).
Fortunately the band finished a few minutes after we arrived. We found out they were from Winnipeg and were in town for the Grey Cup. It seems that in Canada it is traditional for CFL fans from all over the country to descend on the Grey Cup city and party every year regardless of whether or not one’s team is in the game. As I was waiting to buy a beer, the pipers were in front of me getting the usual payment for a piper, i.e. shots of whisky. The bulk of the band finished but then the bartender noticed he had missed one guy.
“Hey, do you wanna shot?” the barkeep yelled.
The guy said “Sure.”
“Whisky? I only have Jameson’s up here, the Scotch is downstairs.”
Well, it was an Irish-style pub, I thought, though I was somewhat taken aback. How can you not have Scotch at all of the bars in your two story pub? The true horror was yet to come in the form of the piper’s response.
“Tequila is fine. Cuervo Gold.”
Without batting an eye, the bartender poured a shot of the desired fluid and laid a thin slice of lime on top.
I looked at the piper in horror. What kind of self-respecting piper downs tequila after a performance? I shook my head in severe disappointment. A non-drinking piper would be more understandable than one who drinks tequila. Then again, perhaps somewhere in the world there was a Mariachi musician slugging down a Glenfiddich to keep everything in balance. I took my 20oz Moosehead back to the table and tried to relay the story. I say “try” because once the pipers stopped the genius running the bar decided to start blasting dance music at roughly double the decibel level of your average Airbus and rendered conversation nearly impossible. I sipped my beer and looked around in amazement at this Bizarro-world pub. Was it a pub or a disco? Were they going to try to get us to take bottle service next?
We left after roughly and hour and as we leaned into the stiff, cold November breeze I reflected that if all Canadians truly do want to be Scottish as the drunk woman at the C&B opined, they’ve got a lot of work to do.
We were in the Cock and Bull, a St. Catherine street pub near the Forum that we frequented regularly in the 90s and less so in the 21st century as we got older and her tolerance for smoke declined along with my tolerance for my fellow drunks. However Quebec has recently joined the rest of the nanny states and provinces in banning indoor smoking in bars (which I’m opposed to in principle but as an asthmatic non-smoker thoroughly enjoy in fact, so call me a hypocrite and then call me a taxi ‘cause I’m in no condition to be driving home from this place, no sir) and we have recently resumed our patronage when visiting the former Ville Marie.
The Habs were having another underachieving Saturday night, this time against the Bruins. The bigger crowd was in the shiny new sports bar half a block away while the ol’ C&B was half full at best with dedicated local celebrants of the fermented beverage. Which is, I decided, pretty much how I like it.
Despite my positive feeling regarding my surroundings, I was still vaguely frustrated between the lackluster play of the Habs and the lack of anything interesting going on among my fellow patrons. Sure, there was the guy at the corner of the bar standing up and going through the various newspaper ads with a small flashlight despite the fact that the bar was extremely well-lit (which makes it somewhat unusual that I like the place as I generally prefer dim but not dark drinking establishments). There was also the guy who the Mrs., owing to her Mediterranean descent and Brooklyn upbringing, suspected was either the bar’s dope dealer or bookie owing to the fact that most patrons greeted him heartily while entering and leaving. However, none of them were engaged in any audible conversation of particular interest. Newspaper-and-flashlight- guy occasionally chatted with might-be-the-bookie-or-dealer-guy but mostly he read the paper and might-be-the-bookie-guy spent more time putting moves on a 38 pound blonde thing that dressed and acted like one of those young ladies who thinks she’s more attractive than she is.
It was only when we were on our last round before heading to dinner that the voice of a drunk woman opining “All Canadians secretly want to be Scottish” that my interest was piqued. Alas she didn’t say anything interesting immediately although as we were heading for the door she started discussing how Kunta Kinte became a man at 15 and was a slave in the United States at 18 and wasn’t that something. Hmph, too late for you baby, we’re off to get some ribs at the Bar B Barn.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that her first statement would come into play later that same evening. After dinner we were to rendez vous with our buddy Claude who is originally from Montreal but currently lives in NYC though we actually meet up with him more up there than down here. He and some other friends were at an Irish bar on Bishop Street. We made our way to the second floor and found the crew trapped behind a bagpipe band in full roar. Three pipers, a bass drummer and a snare drummer in full regalia blaring away at that stuff you only hear on St. Patty’s Day and Sunday mornings at bonspiels (not that I’m ever around for that, but that’s another story).
Fortunately the band finished a few minutes after we arrived. We found out they were from Winnipeg and were in town for the Grey Cup. It seems that in Canada it is traditional for CFL fans from all over the country to descend on the Grey Cup city and party every year regardless of whether or not one’s team is in the game. As I was waiting to buy a beer, the pipers were in front of me getting the usual payment for a piper, i.e. shots of whisky. The bulk of the band finished but then the bartender noticed he had missed one guy.
“Hey, do you wanna shot?” the barkeep yelled.
The guy said “Sure.”
“Whisky? I only have Jameson’s up here, the Scotch is downstairs.”
Well, it was an Irish-style pub, I thought, though I was somewhat taken aback. How can you not have Scotch at all of the bars in your two story pub? The true horror was yet to come in the form of the piper’s response.
“Tequila is fine. Cuervo Gold.”
Without batting an eye, the bartender poured a shot of the desired fluid and laid a thin slice of lime on top.
I looked at the piper in horror. What kind of self-respecting piper downs tequila after a performance? I shook my head in severe disappointment. A non-drinking piper would be more understandable than one who drinks tequila. Then again, perhaps somewhere in the world there was a Mariachi musician slugging down a Glenfiddich to keep everything in balance. I took my 20oz Moosehead back to the table and tried to relay the story. I say “try” because once the pipers stopped the genius running the bar decided to start blasting dance music at roughly double the decibel level of your average Airbus and rendered conversation nearly impossible. I sipped my beer and looked around in amazement at this Bizarro-world pub. Was it a pub or a disco? Were they going to try to get us to take bottle service next?
We left after roughly and hour and as we leaned into the stiff, cold November breeze I reflected that if all Canadians truly do want to be Scottish as the drunk woman at the C&B opined, they’ve got a lot of work to do.
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