Au Pied de Cochon

Montreal is already famous for a dish called poutine, a dish we sampled heavily, in which crispy frites are salted, tossed with cheese curd, then smothered in rich brown gravy--to be eaten with a fork.  At Au Pied de Cochon, Montreal's cult restaurant where gluttony and excess have become signature sins, they include all of those things--but then they top the shimmering pile with a warm lobe of seared, fat-dripping foie gras.  Just for good measure.  Just because they can.

Months ago, when Elin and I bought our tickets to Montreal with expiring frequent flier miles, we immediately asked our lovely and fabulous friend Cat to make reservations for us at Au Pied de Cochon.  Eating at this restaurant was at the top of our list.

We arrived for our reservation right on time--8pm--and the restaurant was packed.  The current occupants of our table were still eating dessert, so we stood near the hostess station, which was just a little corner of the counter fighting for space with trays of seafood on ice and other elements of the raw bar.  We watched the chefs amble about casually, all wearing what looked like mechanic's overalls, joking and laughing, sliding things into a blazing wood-fired oven and preparing elephantine sushi rolls that would take at least 4 bites to put away.  Trays of oysters slid by; entire piling platters of seafood on ice were unloaded onto tables, some with a giant bone of some kind -- possibly full of marrow -- stuffed into the center.  We did all that we could to dodge waiters and waitresses who hurried by from every which direction.

We were eventually seated about halfway back in the relatively narrow restaurant, one side of which is taken up by the bar and a large open kitchen with a staff of many cooks.  Along the opposite side of the restaurant is a wall of mirrors festooned with orb light fixtures; the walls and floor and most everything else seems to be made of wooden planks.  At times, the decor felt like we were on a boat.  Paper napkin rings were decorated with sketched drawings of a man riding a pig, the restaurant's logo.  Most everyone was wearing jeans and talking loudly.  It was supremely, insistently casual.

Even though we were told to avoid ordering too much due to the portion size, upon seeing the menu we quickly decided not to make any choices, and order everything, taking up with the spirit of the restaurant, which is certainly excess. 

For appetizers, we ordered a tomato tart, dressed greens, poutine, and the cochinalles platter: three different rillettes (duck, chicken, and pork), head cheese, a kind of blood jelly, smoked sausage, pickled egg, venison tongue, and toasts to spread everything on.  For $6.50, it was a remarkable deal; if I lived in Montreal, I would quite regularly order it at the bar for a meal with a glass of white wine or a beer.

Though we had ordered the regular poutine (at $23, the foie gras poutine was a bit out of reach), the foie gras version showed up at our table.  We explained that we had ordered the regular poutine, and sadly watched as the gentleman bringing out the food began to withdraw the plate from our table. 

That is, until our waiter showed up with the rest of the appetizers, caught wind of the misunderstanding, and quickly grabbed the plate from the server's hands.  He slid it back onto the table and shrugged.  "A gift," he said.  We were ecstatic.  And it turns out, once we saw the check, that he didn't even charge us for the regular poutine.  This kind of generosity pervades the whole establishment -- beginning with the portions and filtering down to everything else.

The poutine, was, by the way, among the top ten bites of my life.  (I just realized that it would be really fun to write down what those ten bites are--to keep a running list.)

So to be perfectly honest, we were no longer hungry at this point; we were more than halfway full, in fact.  Yet out came the mains, leaving us no time to even begin digesting.

I ordered the restaurant's gimmicky but totally creative and cool "Duck in a Can," which is actually cooked in a can, served at your table in a can, then opened in front of you.

Inside is half a magret (duck breast), which is at the center; they also manage to fit in a lobe a foie gras, roasted garlic, sprigs of thyme, cabbage, and venison demi-glace.  The whole thing cooks into a rich concoction, served over mammoth slabs of grilled toast which are covered in a celery root puree.

Cat ordered the lamb shank, which is confited--poached slowly, probably in duck fat--and served with lentils.

Elin succumbed to the special, a mahi-mahi fillet, which was accompanied with fiddlehead ferns.  The fish itself was cooked perfectly, fresh as ever.

Despite out lack of hunger, we dug in with abandon.  Everything was rich beyond belief, almost overpowering in its intensity.  The flavors were some of the deepest I've personally ever tasted.   It's as if the restaurant has spent the last decade reducing everything: every sauce, condiment, and stock had this unparalleled syrupy, ecstatic flavor.

At one point during the meal -- probably when I was unpacking my canned dinner--I remarked to my dining companions that one could easily take all of our main courses, mash and mix them up together, redistribute them amongst our plates, and we would hardly recognize that anything changed.  At the time, I wasn't being critical, but it does speak to something about Au Pied de Cochon -- our only slight complaint -- that the excessive richness does tend to muddle things.  The restaurant could never be complimented with the words "what a light touch." 

This was somewhat frustrating when it came to the fish: ordering the mahi-mahi, Elin expecting something bright and fresh; instead, it was covered with the rich brown reduction that characterized the rest of our food.  On lamb and duck it makes sense; on the fish it was a disappointment.  Underneath it, the fish itself was impeccably cooked, though.

Somehow, we found ourselves ordering dessert -- albeit a small tarte au citron to share between the three of us.  It was a respectable tart, full of lemon flavor; the torched meringue on top was the highlight.

We left the restaurant with many leftovers, including much of the appetizer plate of rilletes and pates, plus at least half of Cat's lamb shank.  The next evening for dinner we bought cheese and baguette and served it with the pates; the meat from the lamb shank, shredded into a ramekin, made a wonderful topping for bread.

Surprisingly, considering the restaurant's name translates as "Pig's Trotter," we ate little pork; just some rilletes and pates from the appetizer platter.  I consider this an oversight--and a reason to go back again.  I'm beyond curious to see what chef Martin Picard does with pig's feet. 

Montreal, we'll see you again soon.

Tagged as: Au Pied de Cochon, Duck, Montreal, Travel