Buying weed in NDG
So once I had dealt with the absolute essentials (rent, school, cell phone, internet) I began to regret not bringing some weed with me to Montreal. After all, I spent 10 years in Boston floating to the top of the weed chain until I could finally buy reliably decent shit for a reliably market price. And the truth is the Canadian border guards clearly don't give a shit about it... the secret hiding place that I have elaborately planned, only to abandon at the last minute (crack open my computer and stick an ounce in there) was ridiculous. They didn't even check my fucking pockets.
It's a funny thing, weed is one of those habits that you only notice when you don't have any. Or rather, when you spend all day waiting for the cable guy to show up... and you don't have any. So when I finally got online, the first thing I did (like any respectable 21st century citizen) was google "buy weed in montreal," and what comes up is that one of the best places to buy weed is N.D.G., which is exactly where I live.
So I figure the best thing to do is to go to the local Irish bar, and have a couple three very nice pints of Guinness, and be informed by a local that the way to buy weed in Montreal is to get the right phone number, and to get some delivered. But she doesn't have a phone number on her. "But," she tells me, "you live on Marijuana avenue, just ask around."
So I try to go home, but at this point I just can't let myself be dissapointed. I pass the Couch tarde (the French Canadian 7-11. It means, in French sleep late, and in English, couch 'tard, in other words, synonyms.) Standing in front are two young kids, fifteenish and tough, one's real fierce looking and the other is riding a bmx and I think to myself, those are the guys I should ask. But of course, I don't.
Instead, I have another plan: I go down to Rue Saint Jacques, to a strip club called Cabaret les Amazons. This place intrigues me because it is called cabaret les amazons, and I picture gigantic, one-breasted warriors pole dancing naked to exotic cymbal music.
This is not what it looks like.
The reality is that the beers are cheap, the cover is cinq dollar, and and there is a table near the stage, but the minute I sit down I'm scared of the orbiting bikini girls, plus it's tawdry, and makes me feel kind of lonesome.
Besides, at wasn't really what I wanted. My mind was stuck on something else, and if it couldn't have that, it needed something deeper, more carnel and profound than naked girls. I remembered how, on my way to the Cabaret, I had passed a restaurant, a greasy spoon, La belle province friterie. As in pommes frites: a (French) fry ery. Which means one thing, the one sick and depraved scratch for my deepest Faustian jones: poutine.
Mmmmm.... poutine....
(I will have philosophize on poutine more at some point.) Oh yes, it was $5.75, and a bowl of fresh deeply fried frenchfries, drenched in gravy, covered in cheese curds, and then drenched, oh yes, once more, in gravy. Poutine and puntang, the philosophers will never agree... which is better after five beers? At any rate, at this point a fresh bowl of that rates higher than looking at fresh-shaven pussies from a medium distance.
And so I left , and the poutine arrived, and then it was gone: the end of an evening. And yet, and still...
On my way home, I still can't just give up. And as I reach the Couche Tard on the corner, I see the same two teenagers, and I remember what I had heard, that I live on Marijuana Avenue. And I'm finally buzzed enough, so I say to the blacker of the two, "Are you selling dimes?" And he says, "Are you a cop?" And I laugh and open up my jacket, for no reason, and I say, "No, I'm an American. What will twenty get me?"
Twenty gets me two medium sized nuggets. And when it seems cool, the other kid tells me, "Yo, we got a number."
It's a funny thing, weed is one of those habits that you only notice when you don't have any. Or rather, when you spend all day waiting for the cable guy to show up... and you don't have any. So when I finally got online, the first thing I did (like any respectable 21st century citizen) was google "buy weed in montreal," and what comes up is that one of the best places to buy weed is N.D.G., which is exactly where I live.
So I figure the best thing to do is to go to the local Irish bar, and have a couple three very nice pints of Guinness, and be informed by a local that the way to buy weed in Montreal is to get the right phone number, and to get some delivered. But she doesn't have a phone number on her. "But," she tells me, "you live on Marijuana avenue, just ask around."
So I try to go home, but at this point I just can't let myself be dissapointed. I pass the Couch tarde (the French Canadian 7-11. It means, in French sleep late, and in English, couch 'tard, in other words, synonyms.) Standing in front are two young kids, fifteenish and tough, one's real fierce looking and the other is riding a bmx and I think to myself, those are the guys I should ask. But of course, I don't.
Instead, I have another plan: I go down to Rue Saint Jacques, to a strip club called Cabaret les Amazons. This place intrigues me because it is called cabaret les amazons, and I picture gigantic, one-breasted warriors pole dancing naked to exotic cymbal music.
This is not what it looks like.
The reality is that the beers are cheap, the cover is cinq dollar, and and there is a table near the stage, but the minute I sit down I'm scared of the orbiting bikini girls, plus it's tawdry, and makes me feel kind of lonesome.
Besides, at wasn't really what I wanted. My mind was stuck on something else, and if it couldn't have that, it needed something deeper, more carnel and profound than naked girls. I remembered how, on my way to the Cabaret, I had passed a restaurant, a greasy spoon, La belle province friterie. As in pommes frites: a (French) fry ery. Which means one thing, the one sick and depraved scratch for my deepest Faustian jones: poutine.
Mmmmm.... poutine....
(I will have philosophize on poutine more at some point.) Oh yes, it was $5.75, and a bowl of fresh deeply fried frenchfries, drenched in gravy, covered in cheese curds, and then drenched, oh yes, once more, in gravy. Poutine and puntang, the philosophers will never agree... which is better after five beers? At any rate, at this point a fresh bowl of that rates higher than looking at fresh-shaven pussies from a medium distance.
And so I left , and the poutine arrived, and then it was gone: the end of an evening. And yet, and still...
On my way home, I still can't just give up. And as I reach the Couche Tard on the corner, I see the same two teenagers, and I remember what I had heard, that I live on Marijuana Avenue. And I'm finally buzzed enough, so I say to the blacker of the two, "Are you selling dimes?" And he says, "Are you a cop?" And I laugh and open up my jacket, for no reason, and I say, "No, I'm an American. What will twenty get me?"
Twenty gets me two medium sized nuggets. And when it seems cool, the other kid tells me, "Yo, we got a number."
posted by stoned chef at 12:14 AM
3 Comments:
Glad to hear you were able to find gravy, french fries and kind all in the same day, well done.
You appear to have chosen wisely in your place of residence.
sounds like you've settled in nicely in your new home.
best of luck with the studies,sir!
p.s. one haunting question remains: is there good curry in Montreal?
Long time between posts...a good blogger blogs...always!
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