When we got home last night we were both beat. I was telling J. about my last blog post, and he suggested that we should go to a Dairy Queen after dinner and try one of these Blizzard concoctions. OK, I said, where is the nearest one? Out came the smartphones. Ave. du Parc, he said, looking at the map... Hmm.
I saw lightbulbs going on in his head, and then he spoke into the phone: Romados Portuguese chicken Montreal. Up popped the reference, with a phone number, and when he clicked his phone automatically went into call mode, with the Romados number at the top. A glance in my direction: We could order the chicken so it's ready when we get there, then hop on our bikes and go up the rue Rachel path, pick up the food, then ride up to Mont Royal park, and then we'd be right next to the Dairy Queen on Parc.
I'm on a diet, I said, lamely, and grinned at him.
So in 20 minutes we headed off on our bikes, up the hill. "See, we're burning calories, said a voice behind me. I'm sure we'll have worked off all the fries by the time we get to the park.
Rotisserie Ramados, the king of Montreal Portuguese charcoal-grilled chicken, just reopened this past weekend after a terrible fire last year, and last night the lines of people waiting to order were incredible. However, there's a separate line for phone orders. I stayed with the bikes and took some photos while J. went in; we didn't have to wait long.
The restaurant is located in the heart of the Portuguese neighborhood, just above Eglise St-Jean Baptiste.Those are the Romados windows on the left. There are a few more tables for people who want to eat inside than there used to be; there's also the bread and pastry counter with wonderful things like little custard pies. Most people buy their food to go.
So we ended up at Parc Mont Royal, which encompasses the entire eastern side of the mountain. The park was designed by Frederick Olmstead, and it's beautiful, huge, and varied, with meadows, lakes, wooded areas, paths, overlooks. This is just one little section.
This graceful winged lady presided over a beautiful evening.
And the chicken didn't last long. I was good: I didn't eat very many fries, and I didn't eat the chicken skin, which with this particular meal is almost a sacrilege.
We enjoyed the view and the people-watching, and lay back and watched the clouds.
Then it was time for dessert: our first-ever Blizzard. I let J. choose, and he got mint oreo cookies as the mix-in. They put the ice cream and the cookies in a big machine and whip it all up, and hand you a large paper cup filled with the stuff. It was cold, and minty-chocolatey, and quite delicious, even for people like me who think ice cream should be creamy and not, well, gritty.
A very Canadian night, then; a very Montreal summer night too. And then we rode home: downhill all the way.