Our definitive history of Montreal's Atwater Market

Built during the leanest years of the Great Depression, Atwater Market was always meant to be more than a place to buy food.

When it opened its doors in 1933, it was pitched as a civic marvel: modern, hygienic, and forward-looking. A million-dollar investment by the City of Montreal, the Art Deco building was part social infrastructure, part economic stimulus.

The market took its name from Edwin Atwater, a 19th-century businessman and alderman, and replaced the old St. Antoine Market a few blocks east. Designed by father-son architects Ludger and Paul Lemieux, it featured a refrigerated interior, public weighing scales, and a third-floor hall big enough to hold 10,000 people. Over the decades, it hosted political rallies, wrestling matches, WWII food stockpiles, and a campaign against conscription that drew crowds of 20,000.

It was a building made to serve, built in Saint-Henri where working-class families needed it most. In its early decades, the Atwater Market was a vital node in a tight-knit urban network of grocers, farmers, and city residents who relied on it for fresh meat, fruit, and vegetables. The indoor stalls were home to multi-generational butcher shops and fishmongers; the outdoor stalls erupted in spring with flowers, seedlings, and early berries.

But by the late 1960s, things had started to shift. The Lachine Canal closed to industrial traffic. Factories shut down. Supermarkets and suburban sprawl siphoned off shoppers. Mayor Jean Drapeau even tried to turn the place into a rec centre—a plan that was scrapped only after fierce protests by Saint-Henri locals.

The market officially reopened in 1982 after renovations. It never looked back. By the time the canal was reborn in the early 2000s as a green corridor with bike paths and condos, Atwater Market had found its second act. It's become the magnet for cyclists, tourists, and weekend gourmets as we know it today, while still serving its loyal neighbourhood clientele.

And while the area around it has gentrified hard—just ask anyone who’s watched the rents climb—the market has fought to maintain its soul.

A monument you can walk through

From the outside, the building hasn’t changed much since 1933. The signature clock tower still rises over the canal, a fixed point on the city’s south-west skyline. The façade’s vertical lines and brick detailing are textbook Art Deco—streamlined, orderly, built to project optimism and authority in an era of economic uncertainty.

But the symbolism goes deeper. The building itself was an expression of public values: a hygienic, centralized place to shop and a gathering space with clear lines of sight and circulation. It told you this was a civic institution, not just a marketplace. And that message lingers today. As you walk into Atwater, you’re stepping into an architectural time capsule that’s still fully alive with daily commerce—a rare case where preservation isn’t just aesthetic, it’s functional.

That said, the upper floor no longer hosts rallies or mass gatherings. Since the 1980s, it’s been home to the Gadbois Gym, a gymnastics facility. While the echoes of public assembly still haunt the space, Atwater’s civic role has shifted mostly to the ground floor.

Meat, memory, and margins

Boucherie Adélard Bélanger et Fils has been operating since the market opened, now run by the founder’s great-granddaughter. The butcher counters still display the same cuts—though the customers are more likely to ask about grass-fed flank than bulk stewing beef.

They are one of many upholding the past by living it, reshaping it, passing it on. Its butcher stalls, cheese counters, and produce kiosks are run by people who are stewards of craft, community, and continuity.

Take the Boucherie de Tours. What began as a precision-driven butcher shop specializing in French-style cuts is now helmed by two younger butchers—longtime colleagues turned co-owners—who grew up under the mentorship of the shop’s founder. They’ve inherited not just his knife skills, but his producer relationships and his vision: a commitment to quality that serves both everyday cooks and destination shoppers.

Nearby, the Fromagerie Atwater is a 1,000-cheese stronghold run by a second-generation cheesemonger who practically grew up behind the counter. With decades of experience, he’s transformed what started as a corner shop into a full-scale fromagerie with an encyclopedic offering of Quebec and imported cheeses, charcuteries, and microbrewery beers—all delivered with a contagious enthusiasm that feels more like hosting than selling.

The fish game is covered by the Poissonnerie Atwater, where the emphasis is on freshness, transparency, and in-house cutting. Run by a longtime fishmonger who worked his way up from grocery counters to managing one of the city’s best-known seafood destinations, the stall’s reputation is built on careful sourcing and a deep knowledge of the product—whether it’s smoked salmon or PEI oysters.

And on the outdoor perimeter, Potager asiatique brings another layer of depth to the market’s cast. Run by a Vietnamese couple who grow their own produce in Mercier, the stall offers a vibrant selection of Asian vegetables rarely seen elsewhere—bitter melon, elephant ear greens, luffa, and more—harvested with care and offered with guidance to both seasoned cooks and newcomers alike.

Together, these vendors form the present-day backbone of Atwater: a mix of generational knowledge, quiet reinvention, and hands-on expertise. Their stalls aren’t just places to shop—they’re places to learn, to connect, and to taste the legacy of a market that’s still very much alive.

Is it still for everyone?

For all its warmth, Atwater isn’t the most affordable option for everyday groceries. It’s not meant to be a discount destination, but the contrast between the boutique-quality goods and the working-class roots of Saint-Henri is stark. Locals still shop there, but so do tourists and day-trippers from wealthier boroughs.

This tension isn’t new. Critics have long pointed out that public markets, when romanticized and rebranded, can become spaces of consumption that exclude the very people they once served. And yet, Atwater Market has tried to push back against that trend. Programs like Récolte Engagée and Tous à Table! redirect unsold produce to lower-income families and distribute market gift cards to food-insecure Montrealers.

It’s a step—but it also underscores the gap between who the market was built for and who it’s increasingly catering to.

After hours, outside the aisles

Once a platform for collective action and public debate, the market’s identity today is more subtle. You’re less likely to find a political speech than a cooking demo. But even in its quieter role, the market remains one of the few places in the city where strangers still strike up conversations in line. Where you can stumble into a tasting, a flower stall, or a chat with a farmer who’s been coming every season for decades.

In summer, Atwater Market hums. Food trucks and picnic tables surround the Pôle des Saveurs, a cluster of street-food vendors slinging bao, brisket, and ribs. Satay Brothers, for example, arguably made the big times here with its summertime stall. Now, it's a Singaporean powerhouse, still drawing long lines with their Southeast Asian skewers and pork belly buns. It’s part food court, part block party, part time machine.

And in winter, the transformation is equally striking. When the frost sets in, the market throws up insulated walls and becomes a cozy warren of enclosed stalls. Outside, it doubles as a Christmas tree lot and hosts the city’s Christmas Village, complete with mulled wine, carolers, and chalets. The building glows in the dark, a lighthouse of heat and humanity on cold December nights.

Looking ahead

Atwater Market is evolving—carefully. Plans are in place to expand pedestrian access, improve nearby transit links, and continue sustainability initiatives like food redistribution and zero-waste education. The challenge, as always, is balance: between locals and tourists, legacy and innovation, daily needs and curated experience.

Still, for a space built in crisis and nearly demolished in neglect, Atwater remains a case study in resilience. It’s a living museum, yes—but also a functioning, breathing piece of the city.

Where the architecture still does what it was built to do.

Where the people behind the counters still matter.

Where you can feel, however fleetingly, what a true public space is supposed to be.