Alsace, With A Side Of Montreal

A specialty dining experience awaits visitors to Le Bourlingueur

Story and photos by Benjamin Pomerance

What do you think when you think of cabbage? Bland, watery, leafy green vegetable. Butt of far too many jokes about “eating cabbage soup” as a sign of extreme poverty. Good with corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day, good to be avoided in most forms of cuisine for the remainder of the year.

Yet in Restaurant Le Bourlingueur, this negative preconception changes. One adventurous order brings you cabbage like you’ve never had cabbage before. This is Alsace, the easternmost region of France, transported to Montreal in one cozy corner restaurant, and in Alsace, cabbage is king. Nothing personifies Alsatian cooking more than Le choucroute alsacienne, a hearty dish in which one hearty green vegetable is the star attraction. Literally translated, choucroute means sauerkraut, yet this is like no sauerkraut ever found between the buns of a Nathan’s Famous. This is no condiment; this is a meal, a dinner that can include several varieties of meat and potatoes. And when you’re hungry, what a meal it can make.

No matter what meal you chose at Le Bourlingueur, you have to arrive with an appetite. In the true Alsatian style, the portions are ample, and the food and sauces that compose those portions tend to be of the classic “stick-to-your-ribs” variety. Yet on a cold autumn or winter evening, when the Montreal wind is blowing the snowdrifts along Rue St-Paul, nothing in the world tastes better.

The snow had not yet made its annual inaugural appearance when my parents and I last ate at Le Bourlingueur, but the crisp bite of late-autumn air merited an ample Alsatian dinner — highlighted, of course, by at least one of us ordering the choucroute. Yet the warmth one receives from this restaurant comes not only from the piping hot meals, but from the welcoming atmosphere you receive from the moment you walk in the door. The eatery is small and cozy, but not so cozy as to be cramped. Walls of thick stone take you back to a bygone era — both in Montreal and in France — when masonry was the standard and wood structures were unheard of. Pleasantly homespun Halloween decorations adorned sills of the large glass windows on our last visit, soon to be replaced by equally simple but attractive Christmas décor. In such an atmosphere, you feel as if you are not in a commercial establishment, but the home of a moderately well-off Alsatian family. And when you begin talking with the two or three waiters on duty, who seem to have found that desired balance between efficiency and camaraderie, you almost feel as though they are not servers at all, but a family who has invited you over for a special, traditional Alsatian meal.

After a pleasant conversation with our waiter, who conversed sincerely with us about topics ranging from speeding city drivers to the perils of Montreal’s 700 ongoing construction projects, my parents and I finally made our selections. For our appetizers…well, one might say that you can’t choose more traditionally French fare than the starters we ordered. I thoroughly enjoyed my escargots — snails to those people who really want to think about what they’re eating — which were prepared in the classic style: each one assigned to its own little compartment in the crock, and each submerged in a bubbling-hot garlic butter sauce. When the escargots were finished, afraid to waste the remaining sauce, I found that dipping the still-warm, firm-crusted bread that was brought to our table into the garlic butter was the perfect solution.

My father’s appetizer was a rabbit pate, again classic French, and again absolutely delicious. Served simply with a little mustard and some baby gherkin pickles, the pate was packed with flavor, but not so heavy as to be overbearing. Yet I think my favorite starter of the three was my mother’s choice: a line of five tiger shrimp, neatly arranged on a plate that looked like a work of art, which were drizzled with a tasty Pernod sauce. I have had my share of chewy, overcooked shrimp at restaurants, but the rendition of this tasty seafood dish from this kitchen was, in my opinion, simply sensational.

Every entrée at Le Bourlingueur comes with soup or salad, as well as dessert, at no extra charge. On such a chilly evening, the vote at our table was unanimous for soup. Our selection was rewarded with bowls of potage so hot that little wisps of steam were still rising from them. The chef’s inspiration that night was a beet soup — not Russian-style borscht, but a no-cream-added beet-featured broth made from a vegetable base. Occasionally, you end up at a restaurant where the complimentary soup is some sort of bland concoction, but tonight at Le Bourlingueur, all three of us agreed that this beet soup of one of the highlights of the evening.

After more entertaining conversation about the city’s construction problems, the main courses arrived. My father had chosen a duck confit, duck that has been cooked in its own fat until appropriately crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Served with roasted potatoes and parsnips, this duck was excellent, the skin just crispy enough and the inner meat still moist and tender. Our waiter had informed us that the duck is one of the restaurant’s best-selling items, and after sampling it, I think all of us can understand why.

Along with the duck, our waiter had also recommended that one of select the pork, which my mother ultimately did. In an Alsatian restaurant, such a recommendation comes as no surprise. Pigs are favored animals in Alsace, dubbed Le seigneur cochon (“The noble pig”) by the region’s populace. This pig must have been noble indeed, for the pork was among the best we have ever eaten in any restaurant. A sauce of baked apples accompanied the pork, which arrived in a portion all of us marveled at, yet somehow were easily able to finish.

As for me, the choucroute was my choice, the pinnacle of cabbage-based cuisine. Every choucroute is different depending on its maker, and the chefs at Le Bourlingueur frequently vary the preparations of the choucroute they offer, quite likely to the delight of their regular customers. Tonight’s selection included three types of sausages — Vienna, veal, and garlic — and a nice smoked ham, and, of course, the traditional boiled potatoes and cabbage. Like the haggis in Scotland, the Alsatian choucroute arrives at the table in Le Bourlingueur with a little bit of ceremony. Our waiter arrived with a sizeable pot, withdrew the lid with all the drama of a magician performing his grand finale, and, after identifying the various components of this dish, arranged a hearty helping on my plate. There was, of course, plenty more in the pot to go around, so all three of us enjoyed our fair share. And for cabbage skeptics — which, admittedly, I am not — the star vegetable tasted great, neither bland nor unduly soft but instead adopting the various flavors around it. For centuries, this dish has been popular among the Alsatian people. When trying it at Le Bourlingueur, I can certainly see why it has lasted for so long.

Our meal concluded with three simple but very enjoyable desserts. My father’s poached pear was excellent, as was my lemon cheesecake with raspberry puree. The biggest surprise for me, though, was the pound cake my mother ordered. Ordinarily, I am not particularly fond of pound cake. Yet this was neither as dense nor as heavy as the — dare I say it when writing about a French restaurant? — British-style pound cakes I have had before. Instead, this pound cake was much more airy, featuring a hint of orange flavor and garnished with a drizzle of crème anglaise.

Have you ever eaten at Restaurant Le Bourlingueur?