The Mile End tale of El Greco

This story originally appeared in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society.

Over the past century, the social landscape of Mile End has been shaped by waves of immigration. Eastern European Jews, Greeks, the Portuguese, and hipsters have each, in turn, unpacked their suitcases in this transitional neighbourhood tucked between Mont-Royal and Van Horne. Immortalized by writer Mordecai Richler, the Jewish Parc Avenue of the 1930s to 1950s was later embraced by the Greek diaspora throughout the 1960s and 70s. The massive influx following the military coup in Greece turned the artery into the economic nerve centre of the community.

Among those new arrivals was Yiánnis Constantakopoulos. A committed communist, he worked in his family’s furniture manufacturing business in Athens before deciding to leave, following the path of many fellow citizens in search of a better future in America. He landed in Montreal in 1975 with his wife Paraskévi. They would have two sons. Years later, I would come to know the younger one—but more on that later.

Today, Parc Avenue remains a multicultural ecosystem with fluid boundaries. While most of the Greek population has gradually moved north—first to Parc-Extension, then more recently to Laval—their imprint, though less prominent, still lingers in places of worship, restaurants and cafés, and in the language still spoken on the sidewalks.

When the picturesque CD Plus at 5128 Parc Avenue shut its doors in 2020, the space went vacant, as did the shop next to it. In the midst of a pandemic, the odds of a new venture moving in were slim. So when I passed by and noticed lettering in the window, I was surprised: El Greco.

Someone was building a nest.

With the arrival of the warmer months, mismatched chairs began to sprout in front of this discreet little shop, almost always occupied by men with white moustaches. They sip coffee, smoke, and chat with Mediterranean nonchalance in front of what appears to be an upholstery workshop. And at the center of these well-groomed, old-world men stands a younger figure—tall, lean, with a punk rock wardrobe. There’s a certain je ne sais quoi about him, perfectly in sync with the eclectic soul of the neighbourhood.

Walking almost daily between Laurier and Fairmount, I became a regular witness to these curious scenes. One day, I introduced myself to the young man. His name was Illias. Last name? Constantakopoulos. In halting English, we set a time to meet again.

Sitting with us on one of the now-familiar chairs, Vivian Lambrakis from the Hellenic Workers’ Association of Quebec helps translate. The workshop is packed to the brim, yet it carries an undeniable charm. Illias hasn’t made many changes to the pastel-green space. He simply brought in his tools and got to work.

“The place was available. I couldn’t believe it,” he says, smiling. “It’s a great neighbourhood for my craft. There’s so much diversity. Greeks, Italians, Québécois, South Americans, Hasidic Jews. I do business with everyone.”

“It’s a welcoming address," Vivian adds. "Sharing the street this way is very Greek. Creating a space to gather and keep the community connected.”

“The door’s always open,” Illias says. “You have to enjoy the summer, especially after lockdown. I usually start around 8 a.m. and lock up around the same time at night. I’m here every day, except Sundays. That’s when my father takes over.”

Inside, he walks me through his world : his sewing machine, his cutting techniques, the way he installs fabric. His movements are precise, meticulous. “In this era of IKEA, this profession is a form of resistance,” he says. “It’s about investing in the quality of the stitching, the materials, using natural products.”

His expertise stands in stark contrast to the age of fast furniture, a growing concern in the broader ecological crisis. “You’ll keep your IKEA furniture for a few years, never form any real emotional bond with it, and then toss it out. It’s built to become obsolete quickly. Through my work, I try to make furniture last to honour the craftsmanship that goes into it.”

“I especially love working on tufted sofas and anything retro. That’s where I can really express myself.”

I ask him how he manages with only a rudimentary grasp of English and French. “I speak the dialect of the sofa!” he laughs. “People send me a photo, and then I quote a price based on the design and the extent of the work. No need for much small talk. Plus, I usually charge less than the competition,” he says, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“If I see that the client isn’t well off, someone working in a factory, for example, I charge them less. My pay is the satisfaction of giving back a piece of furniture in good shape. I can’t imagine doing anything else. I’ve got a reputation to uphold! Sure, mostly in the Greek community—but when you love what you do, you do it well, because it doesn’t feel like work anymore.”

Vivian has to leave. I take the opportunity to snap a few photos. We light another cigarette outside and chat in patchwork English, helped along by a translation app. His answers feel less fragmented now. His story is beginning to take shape.

Illias was born in 1981 in Parc-Extension. Six months after his birth, the Constantakopoulos family decided to move back to Athens. He would spend the next twenty-seven years of his life there. “At fourteen, school and I weren’t getting along, so I dropped out. My father didn’t give me a choice. I started working,” he says, waving to an elderly man passing in front of the shop.

Coming from a long line of upholsterers, Yiánnis passed down all his know-how.

Back in Montreal in 2008, as the economic crisis hit Greece hard, Illias found work at an upholstery factory on Beaumont Avenue, right at the entrance of Parc-Extension, the neighbourhood he still calls home today.

Even if Athens is no longer where he lives, it still lives in him. “I miss the freedom of Athens. Its alternative vibe, its graffiti-covered walls, its open-mindedness, its all-night parties. But more than that, it’s the friends, the soccer, the fights, the love. Athens is my heart.”

I ask perhaps a bit too bluntly about the meaning behind his four tattoos. An Orthodox cross symbolizes his religious heritage. A short silence accompanies the faded tribal mark on his right shoulder blade. “Because of tensions with Turkey, military service is mandatory in Greece. I didn’t have a passport, so I ended up in the paratroopers. Fifteen months in the army. I carry some difficult memories from that time. Our governments had their disputes, but the people themselves felt no hatred toward the Turks.”

Among the ink is also the crest of his soccer club, Panathinaïkós, a team beloved both by the wealthy elite and working-class neighbourhoods alike. As a teenager, it was through Gate 13, the home of the club’s most radical supporters, that his antifascist convictions began to take root.

When it comes time to explain his final tattoo, his voice shifts, more cautious now. “Greece is complicated. It’s Europe and all its baggage. When I immigrated, it was right when far-right identity politics were on the rise. The neo-Nazi party Golden Dawn. Violence in the streets.”

A man firmly on the political left, he felt a shift—a dark undercurrent—creeping into Greek society. He left before things fully unraveled: paramilitary squads targeting leftist activists, armed attacks on migrants, the murder of antifascist rapper Killah P, and Golden Dawn earning 16.12% of the vote in Athens in 2014. Montreal—the birthplace he never really knew—became a haven but not without its own risks.

“I struggled with addiction for years. Alcohol, hard drugs. But twenty-nine months ago, I checked myself into a monastery in Spain for rehab. And since then, I’ve been sober. I told myself: if you keep using, there’ll be no business. That was the deal. I quit everything, and El Greco was born.”

I congratulate him and ask where the name came from. “It was at the Tam-tams on the mountain,” he says. “I love that place. The regulars couldn’t pronounce my name, so they started calling me that. It just stuck. And hey, it’s the name of a great 16th century painter.”

Listening to Illias, one quickly sees that the social fabric of Mile End is still very much alive. The neighbourhood remains a place where a young foreign upholsterer can breathe new life into his future, work tirelessly to open a shop, and earn his daily bread. Yiánnis once fled a nation scarred by years of military dictatorship. Thirty-three years later, Illias escaped the tensions of a resurgent fascism.

Drawing on a shared craft, father and son—now side by side on Parc Avenue—restore the beauty of worn-out furniture. Through them, and others like them, the story of the neighbourhood’s Greek community continues to unfold, cigarette in hand, door always open.

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