Walk into a bar that works, and you feel it before you understand it. The light will do something for you, the sound will land at the right level, and the room pulls you in. You order a drink, and you stay longer than you planned.

Some bars look great in photos but they'll fall flat in person. The design is there, the concept is legible, but something in the air is off—a faint unease you can't name, a sense that the space is performing rather than living. Montreal has plenty of both kinds. But the gap between them is rarely about budget. It's about a particular kind of obsession, one shared by the designers, operators, and craftspeople who build these rooms from the floor up.

The blank canvas

Anthoni Jodoin doesn't start with a concept. He starts with a room.

The man behind Wünderbar, Spaghetti Western, Snowbird Tiki Bar, Taverne Cobra, and One Punch Mickey's—each one its own fully realized world—says the space usually tells him what it wants to be before he does. Most designers would call that listening. Jodoin calls it letting the canvas speak.

"Sometimes an architectural detail sparks the concept; other times a structural limitation forces a workaround that ends up shaping the entire identity of the place," he says.

What he's chasing, more than anything, is a feeling of worn-in authenticity. He often travels alone, gravitating toward places that feel like they've been there forever—mom-and-pop shops, neighbourhood fixtures—where the walls could tell stories. This is the sensation he tries to recreate.

"I'm not really searching for what's trendy," he says. "I'm drawn to what's established, worn-in, and authentic."

The set decorator 

Interior designer Annika Krausz, who designed WILLS as well as the restaurant Romies, brings twelve years of film and television work to every project. She recognizes Jodoin's instinct immediately. Her background in set decoration taught her something that doesn't always make it into design school: a room needs to breathe.

Walk into a bar that works, and you feel it before you understand it. The light will do something for you, the sound will land at the right level, and the room pulls you in. You order a drink, and you stay longer than you planned.

Some bars look great in photos but they'll fall flat in person. The design is there, the concept is legible, but something in the air is off—a faint unease you can't name, a sense that the space is performing rather than living. Montreal has plenty of both kinds. But the gap between them is rarely about budget. It's about a particular kind of obsession, one shared by the designers, operators, and craftspeople who build these rooms from the floor up.

The blank canvas

Anthoni Jodoin doesn't start with a concept. He starts with a room.

The man behind Wünderbar, Spaghetti Western, Snowbird Tiki Bar, Taverne Cobra, and One Punch Mickey's—each one its own fully realized world—says the space usually tells him what it wants to be before he does. Most designers would call that listening. Jodoin calls it letting the canvas speak.

"Sometimes an architectural detail sparks the concept; other times a structural limitation forces a workaround that ends up shaping the entire identity of the place," he says.

What he's chasing, more than anything, is a feeling of worn-in authenticity. He often travels alone, gravitating toward places that feel like they've been there forever—mom-and-pop shops, neighbourhood fixtures—where the walls could tell stories. This is the sensation he tries to recreate.

"I'm not really searching for what's trendy," he says. "I'm drawn to what's established, worn-in, and authentic."

The set decorator 

Interior designer Annika Krausz, who designed WILLS as well as the restaurant Romies, brings twelve years of film and television work to every project. She recognizes Jodoin's instinct immediately. Her background in set decoration taught her something that doesn't always make it into design school: a room needs to breathe.

Walk into a bar that works, and you feel it before you understand it. The light will do something for you, the sound will land at the right level, and the room pulls you in. You order a drink, and you stay longer than you planned.

Some bars look great in photos but they'll fall flat in person. The design is there, the concept is legible, but something in the air is off—a faint unease you can't name, a sense that the space is performing rather than living. Montreal has plenty of both kinds. But the gap between them is rarely about budget. It's about a particular kind of obsession, one shared by the designers, operators, and craftspeople who build these rooms from the floor up.

Walk into a bar that works, and you feel it before you understand it. The light will do something for you, the sound will land at the right level, and the room pulls you in. You order a drink, and you stay longer than you planned.

Some bars look great in photos but they'll fall flat in person. The design is there, the concept is legible, but something in the air is off—a faint unease you can't name, a sense that the space is performing rather than living. Montreal has plenty of both kinds. But the gap between them is rarely about budget. It's about a particular kind of obsession, one shared by the designers, operators, and craftspeople who build these rooms from the floor up.