Montreal's Best Restaurants Right Now: Curated and Mapped Out

The name comes from Jura winemaker Jean-François Ganevat, famous for calling everyone "mon lapin"—and the affection fits. Seven years in, this Little Italy dining room still owns the sweet spot between casual and occasion. Co-chefs Marc-Olivier Frappier and Jessica Noël write a daily menu that gives away little beyond ingredients and producers; what lands is another story. Leeks served in a can "like mussels," habanada peppers stuffed with fried baccalà, the croque-pétoncle—a Lyonnais quenelle pressed into a toasted sandwich—that's become a calling card.

Co-sommeliers Vanya Filipovic and Alex Landry pour bottles made by friends in Jura, Campania, and Andalusia, while Marc-Antoine Gélinas runs a floor that makes a twentieth visit feel like a first. Since leaving the Joe Beef group to fly solo, the team's vision has only sharpened. Their line, not ours: it's not fine dining, it's fun dining.

Brothers Ari and Pablo Schor named their Verdun corner restaurant after their grandmother, and everything else follows from that. After years running the kitchen and floor at Liverpool House, the pair set up on a residential corner where their Argentine-Jewish heritage—filtered through a childhood split between Buenos Aires and Winnipeg—gets the ambassadorship it deserves. "We're celebrating historic foods that don't need to be made to sound like more than they are," says Ari, which undersells the effort involved: guinea fowl poached in stock that then cooks the rice for arroz caldoso, beef tongue with chile verde, a golden knish crowned with Osetra caviar. The cured mackerel montadito is the house standout, and offal gets the star treatment throughout. Under 30 seats, natural wines, and a nightly tasting menu for those who'd rather hand over the wheel. Fine dining without the gilding.

Eight seats, 20 courses, and a philosophy rooted in Edomae tradition. Chef Vincent Gee and co-owner Julian Doan built Nishinokaze as a quiet counterpoint to the flash of most omakase spots—minimalist room, centuries-old ceramics, hard bop on the speakers. The fish splits between local wild-caught and Fukuoka imports, each piece treated with the kind of attention that rewards slowing down. Matane shrimp, Ontario polypore mushrooms, whatever's in season and handled right. Gee and Doan talk about the place as a living gallery, which sounds precious until you're sitting at the counter watching the work. It's sushi as craft and patience, honouring both Japanese tradition and Quebec's own terroir.

At Montréal Plaza, whimsy isn't a garnish—it's baked into the DNA. Chefs Charles-Antoine Crête and Cheryl Johnson run the kitchen like a well-oiled experiment: playful, unpredictable, but anchored by technique. The Zébulon Perron–designed dining room hints at the surreal—plastic dinosaurs on the pass, Elmo sightings at the bar—but the cooking is no joke. Sashimi de pétoncles arrives on a toy triceratops; a whelk gratin might follow, then foie gras with strawberries. French methods meet global flavour, with Johnson grounding Crête's improvisational streak. Plaza doesn't just blur the line between high dining and irreverence—it makes it irrelevant.

Luca Cianciulli and Maxime Landry left Toqué—where Cianciulli was sous-chef—to open this Villeray spot in 2018, doing much of the build themselves, right down to hand-painting the sign. The name is the Cianciulli family nickname, meaning "little brat" in the Calabritto dialect, which tells you something about the attitude. The cooking, though, is all discipline: beef carpaccio dressed with giardiniera, bucatini all'amatriciana, grilled artichokes under a delicate fonduta, casarecce with rapini, sausage, and pecorino. Pasta is rolled fresh daily, and the seasonal menu rarely stretches past ten plates. Fellow Toqué alum Maxime Lavallée handles a wine list built on private imports—start with the olive oil-infused negroni. Reservations vanish almost as soon as each month's window opens, and one meal explains why the whole neighbourhood treats it like their local Italian friend. That was the plan all along.

Monarque is a father-son project decades in the making: Richard Bastien, the restaurateur behind Le Mitoyen and Leméac, and his son Jérémie, who cooked in a Michelin-starred kitchen in France before returning home. The name refers to the monarch butterfly, whose migration spans generations—a fitting emblem for the handover happening in this 1845 building on Saint-Jacques. The Alain Carle-designed space splits in two: a lively brasserie with bouillabaisse, veal sweetbreads, and house dry-aged Prince Edward Island beef, and a more formal dining room running a market-driven four-course menu. Jérémie's cooking marries classic French technique with what he picked up cooking across Asia—duck consommé with autumn vegetables, sea trout with dashi and daikon. Sommelier Olivier Fontaine's list of mostly French private imports covers every budget. A business-lunch power spot at noon, something more romantic after dark.

The name is a joke about French restaurants' historic lack of air conditioning, which sets the tone: serious cooking that refuses to take itself seriously. Founder Brendan Lavery, a Maison Publique alum, keeps the format tight in this twenty-odd-seat Little Italy bistro—a chalkboard menu of about seven savoury dishes, cheese, and two desserts, built on a network of small Quebec producers. The roasted flat cabbage, set in soubise and swirled with an XO-style sauce studded with dried scallops and salted pork, is reason enough to visit; Montebello trout with watercress and sticky carrot pudding round out the argument. Set designer François Séguin shaped the pastel room, complete with a Calder-evoking mobile by ceramicist Élyse Leclerc. Wines are low-intervention, and the cocktail program is essentially G&Ts souped up with verjus. Grab a bar seat facing the kitchen and watch it all come together.

Bar St-Denis is rapidly ascending Montreal's culinary ladder, and for good reason. The magic lies in the dedication of David Gauthier, Emily Holmsy, and their crew. Dishes like the deer kibbeh nayeh—raw, creamy, subtly sweet, garnished with mint and onions, drizzled with premium olive oil—showcase premium local sourcing and sharp technique. Every bite promises a new revelation.

When Martin Picard opened Au Pied de Cochon in 2001, it marked a turning point in Montreal's restaurant scene. The Plateau dining room—open kitchen, oversized portions, unapologetic richness—rejected fine dining's polish in favour of something primal: foie gras on poutine, pig's feet reimagined, onion soup turned decadent. Over two decades later, the energy hasn't dimmed. It's loud, busy, and totally committed to indulgence. For those looking to understand Quebec's culinary id, this is where you start. Bring friends, and maybe a napkin for your forehead.

Born from the team behind Little Italy curry shop Pumpui—the name means "older brother" in Thai—Pichai is where chef Jesse Grasso's Thai and Isaan cooking lands with a street-food sensibility and none of the compromises. The fried fish balls in sweet chilli sauce are the gateway; the duck laab—a spicy Isaan-style salad of minced local duck and grilled hearts—is the argument-ender. But the specials list is where this Plaza St-Hubert kitchen flexes: firefly squid with nam jim talay, whole fried Arctic char in tamarind-chili sauce, sawagani river crabs in early summer, much of it built on herbs and produce grown by Sukonta Beaulieu and La Charrette. Wine director Henri Murray leans low-intervention—whites, skin-contact, rosé—chosen to stand up to the heat, because the kitchen doesn't pull punches on spice. The sleek room runs boisterous, filled with Thai families after the taste of home and well-travelled locals chasing memories of Bangkok sois. Trust your server and order the specials.

Lawrence has evolved, but its commitment to exceptional food remains unchanged. What began as a pop-up in 2010 has transformed into an intimate tasting-menu destination in the former larrys space on Fairmount Avenue. Chef Marc Cohen, alongside Sefi Amir, blends whole-animal butchery with meticulous plating and British inspiration. Dishes lean adventurous—brain and morel agnolotti, tongue terrine—while maintaining the depth and elegance that made Lawrence a Montreal institution. The wine program focuses exclusively on private imports from small producers. One of the city's most compelling dining experiences.

Mano Cornuto was built in real time on a then-uncertain Griffintown corner by partners figuring things out as they went. Opened in 2019 by alumni of Foxy, Garde Manger, and Crew Collective, the café landed just ahead of the pandemic and never stopped moving. Instead of closing, it adapted with pizzas, meal kits, shortened teams, and longer days. That stretch quietly shaped what Mano would become.

Now it runs all day, every day, balancing Italian café culture with Montreal pragmatism. Fresh pasta, daily focaccia, familiar plates. The room hums with different crowds cycling through from lunch to late evening. Less about destination dining than building rhythm, and that consistency is what turned a risky address into a neighbourhood institution.

The Winnicki brothers started with a hawker stall at Atwater Market before landing on Notre-Dame Street, and the menu still carries that street-food logic: built to move fast, hit hard, and hold up to repeat visits. Laksa arrives rich with coconut and chili, crowded with fish cakes, shrimp, and quail egg. Char kuay teow comes properly wok-charred, tangled with Chinese sausage and clams. The rendang is slow-braised until the spiced coconut milk collapses into the beef. Pork belly bao get the hoisin-cilantro-cucumber treatment; papaya salad stays sharp with peanuts and chili.

Desserts lean traditional Malaysian: kueh salat layers sticky rice with pandan custard, kueh dada wraps palm sugar in pandan crepe. Most of it traces back to family recipes, and all of it gets made in-house. The room runs casual and loud, the kind of place where tables turn over and regulars don't need menus. Southeast Asian comfort food without the fuss, served by a Saint-Henri operation that's been earning its crowd since day one.

Named for the maple samaras that spin down every fall—a nod to seeds leaving the tree, as chef David Ollu and much of his team did when they left Bouillon Bilk to plant something of their own in Hochelaga. The result is one of the city's most accessible routes into fine dining: clean, seasonal plates like zucchini in textures with XO sauce, or house pappardelle in a lemony corn cream with lobster. Menus rotate at a pace that suggests the kitchen is still discovering the place alongside its guests, and the tasting menu is the best way in. The double-fronted corner room, recently renovated in raw materials and natural textures with blown-glass fixtures by Marc-André Fontaine, mirrors the food: light, warm, unfussy. Café Hélico handles daytime duty out back. Fine dining without the posturing, and Hochelaga's proudest table.

The restaurant that launched a thousand ships. Since 2005, this Little Burgundy institution has shaped Montreal's dining scene, turning classic French techniques into something unapologetically local. Founded by Frédéric Morin, Allison Cunningham, and former partner David McMillan, the menu—scrawled on a chalkboard and dictated by what's fresh—blends Quebecois bounty with bistro indulgence: foie gras, roasted bone marrow, perennial lobster spaghetti. The space is cluttered, candlelit, a little chaotic—the kind of place where dinner could turn into a multi-hour feast. Expect to leave full, maybe a little tipsy, and with a renewed appreciation for why this remains one of Montreal's greats.

Vin Papillon opened in 2013 as the quieter, greener offshoot of Joe Beef and Liverpool House, but it's become something else entirely—less satellite, more touchstone. The reputation was built on playful, vegetable-forward dishes and a wine list championing natural producers before it was fashionable. Today, Fred Morin and chef de cuisine Alan Stewart run the kitchen; Max Campbell of Deux Caves curates the wines. The room remains intimate—white brick walls, a signature ocean liner painting by Fred looming over the open kitchen. Walk-in only, still open at 3pm, still one of the most quietly magnetic places to drink and eat in Montreal.

The original Joe Beef—Charles McKiernan, the 1800s tavern keeper—had a legendary rival in a pub called Liverpool House, and the name stuck when this room opened next door in 2007. It's since built an identity all its own, hosting everyone from neighbourhood families to the 2017 Obama-Trudeau dinner now remembered as the "Liverpool House Summit." Of the group's restaurants, this may be the one that most faithfully captures the founding spirit: clever, irreverent, rooted in bourgeois French cooking. Chef Catherine Watters keeps the menu hearty but fresh—zesty Italian-style beef tartare, roasted char with leeks, the perennial lobster spaghetti, a proper steak frites—alongside a lively oyster bar stocked with mostly Canadian shellfish. James Simpkins's wine list roams from natural finds to old-world classics. Loud, generous, and the reason people can't get into Joe Beef don't feel shortchanged.

Hoogan & Beaufort is built around fire, history, and restraint. Set inside a former rail-era industrial building at the Angus Shops, the restaurant keeps its bones exposed—brick walls, steel structure, soaring ceilings—while placing the kitchen squarely at the centre of the room. Wood-fire cooking drives the menu, with nearly everything, desserts included, passing over open flames.

Chef Marc-André Jetté’s cooking leans precise rather than heavy, using seasonal Québec ingredients to build depth without excess—think seafood, vegetables, and carefully handled meats shaped by smoke more than spectacle. The experience is anchored by one of the province’s most serious wine programs, curated with equal discipline. Service mirrors the space: calm, informed, and confident.

At Île Flottante, tasting menus are designed to remain fluid rather than fixed. The kitchen works from daily arrivals, adjusting dishes and combinations as products come in, which gives the evening a sense of movement rather than rigid structure. Vegetables play a central role, often anchoring plates that are finished with carefully chosen meats or seafood when available.

The room itself supports that approach. Split into two intimate spaces with sightlines into the kitchen, the setting encourages attention without formality. Service is attentive and conversational, walking diners through each course as it lands. On St-Viateur, the restaurant has become a reference point for people seeking a tasting menu that values adaptability, seasonality, and balance over spectacle.

Tuck Shop has been a Saint-Henri fixture since 2010, and the room still earns its reputation the old-fashioned way — by getting everything right at once. Chef Theo Lerikos runs a concise, ever-changing bistro menu built around Quebec market products: Kamouraska lamb, Gaspésie seafood, wild mushrooms treated simply and cooked well. The philosophy is refinement without fuss, letting the ingredients do the work. The space balances chic and comfortable in a compact 38-seat room where an open kitchen and raw bar add energy to the floor. Amelia Stine handles a wine list driven by private imports that shifts as often as the menu does. Service is warm and assured — the kind that makes a small room feel generous. Few places in the city hold this much together this consistently, for this long.

Open since New Year's Eve 2004, Hubert Marsolais and Claude Pelletier's Old Montreal address hides behind a discreet door on quiet Saint-Claude, and the "Club" in the name is earned: thick stone walls, enveloping leather armchairs, animal-themed lighting, canvases by Nicolas Baier. International celebrities pass through precisely because nobody makes a fuss. The short menu, executed by chef Olivier Larocque, honours the hunting-and-fishing theme with a few fish, a bird, and red meat—often game—plus the house signature, simply titled "Chasse et Pêche," an ever-changing surf-and-turf. Vol-au-vent with veal sweetbreads and lobster, halibut with bacon jam: opulent, bourgeois cooking without a wasted gesture. The cellar runs past 700 labels under head sommelier Joris Gutierrez Garcia, and Masami Waki's desserts close things properly. Two decades in, still one of the city's most memorable rooms to lose an evening in.

Garde Manger works because it understands momentum. Early in the evening, it reads as a candlelit bistro with leather banquettes, wood panels, and a calm, attentive room. Later, the volume rises, the crowd thickens, and the restaurant slips into something closer to a neighbourhood after hours meeting point. That shift feels intentional rather than accidental.

The food mirrors that versatility. Seafood anchors the menu, but richer plates like short ribs or lobster salad give the kitchen room to flex. The open kitchen keeps cooks and diners in constant visual conversation, while cocktails and an eclectic wine program keep tables lingering longer than planned. In Old Montreal, few rooms manage to feel both composed and chaotic in equal measure.

Kitano Shokudo is the kind of place chefs send you when asked where they eat on their nights off. Run by Hiroshi Kitano, a self-taught chef with deep respect for balance and technique, this Plateau bistro is a love letter to Japanese cuisine—elevated yet unfussy. The menu leans into seasonality, with specials that veer into unexpected territory: wild boar mapo tofu, uni carbonara. Fish is often sourced straight from Japan. With fewer seats and a loyal clientele, it's about proximity—to the chef, to the craft, and to soulful cooking that keeps regulars coming back. The omakase is a must.

At Taverne sur le Square, longevity is the point. The room fills nightly with a mix of neighbours, long time regulars, and people who come knowing exactly what they want to order. The setting does much of the work. Leather banquettes wrap the space, the lighting stays low, and the service moves with quiet confidence. Nothing rushes, nothing drags.

The menu reflects that same confidence. Dishes are familiar, not retro, and grounded in high quality ingredients rather than novelty. Pastas are made in house, proteins are handled simply, and the house classics remain untouched for a reason. Wine plays an outsized role here, with a list that rewards curiosity and trust in the staff. In Westmount, few dining rooms feel as settled or as dependable.

Tota Oung, William Kit, and Sihour Kong named their Wellington Street restaurant after the stray monkeys they kept crossing paths with on a trip through Cambodia, and the street-food spirit made the flight home intact. Since 2017, this Verdun room—57 seats, a commanding mural by Mylène Ho, a soundtrack built for a party—has been the city's reference for Khmer cooking. The stuffed chicken wings, boneless and packed with Thai sausage under a turmeric-lemongrass glaze, are the dish people plan trips around. The amok fish delivers flaky cod in a red curry-coconut sauce, the shrimp ceviche arrives with a wasabi kick that hits straight in the nose, and the Phnom Penh bone marrow comes with vanilla Chinese fried bread that shouldn't work but does. Cocktails keep pace with the spice. Cambodian flavours you can't find elsewhere, served at full volume.

Foxy approaches cooking as a physical act rather than a conceptual one. Fire dictates the menu, the timing, and the mood, whether it is vegetables blistered until sweet or proteins cooked directly over embers. The result is food that feels direct and grounded, shaped by smoke and heat rather than embellishment. Plates arrive meant to be shared, encouraging a table to move collectively through the meal.

Set along Notre Dame Ouest in Griffintown, the dining room stays compact and energetic, with an atmosphere that reflects the kitchen’s intensity. Wine plays a supporting role, chosen to stand up to char and richness without competing for attention. Foxy works because it commits fully to its method and lets repetition, rather than novelty, do the convincing.

La Franquette feels designed for repeat visits rather than occasions. The dining room fills with neighbours, small groups, and regulars who treat the menu as something to return to rather than decode. Dishes shift with the seasons, but the logic stays consistent. Vegetables are treated with care, sauces are confident, and proteins are cooked cleanly, whether that means guinea fowl, sweetbreads, mussels, or a straightforward steak.

Hospitality is a key part of the experience. The front of house sets a relaxed tone that keeps the room moving without pressure, while the wine program offers depth without intimidation. In Westmount, La Franquette has quietly become a reference point for what a modern bistro can be when comfort and precision are given equal weight.

Oncle Lee on Laurier Avenue West redefines Chinese dining with a distinctly Montreal twist. A creation of Andersen Lee and the minds behind Bouillon Bilk, the elegant space—sleek black banquettes, Chinese lanterns—reflects a deep reverence for Lee's heritage. The menu reimagines traditional Chinese dishes through a local lens: chow mein alongside steamed oysters with black bean. Bespoke cocktails and a thoughtful wine list complete the picture.

A Montreal institution since 1980, L'Express on rue Saint-Denis continues to uphold its reputation for timeless French cuisine and conviviality. The menu—largely unchanged over the years—offers classics like sorrel soup, marrow, and veal liver with unwavering consistency. The Luc Laporte–designed room exudes timeless charm, and long-serving staff ensure every visit feels like coming home.

Fleurs & Cadeaux is a Japanese-inspired snack bar in Chinatown housed in a pink, century-old building on Saint-Urbain Street. The space honours its past as a florist and gift shop while showcasing chef Tetsuya Shimizu's skills: temakis, Japanese curries, sashimi on rice, bento boxes. The drink menu features innovative cocktails, natural wines, and artisan sakes. The basement speakeasy Sans Soleil adds DJ-spun vinyl and a top-notch sound system.

Chef Juan Lopez Luna and sommelier Lindsay Brennan run this intimate Outremont room as a conversation between his roots in Tlaxcala and Quebec's seasons. The foundation is ancestral corn, nixtamalized in-house the pre-Columbian way, pressed into tortillas of uncommon depth. The monthly-changing Carte Blanche menu—nine courses built on mar y montaña, where mountains meet the sea—might run from white heirloom corn tostadas topped with Quebec snow crab and guacachile to aguachile verde with Gaspé bluefin and caviar, to chileatole, a masa-based soup laced with jalapeño and marigold. Brennan's list leans on Catalan natural winemakers she imports directly through her agency Vin i Vida—vino con alma, wines with soul, the idea the whole place is named for. Once a month, a guest chef joins for a taco omakase Sunday. A quiet street corner hiding one of the city's singular tables.

Monkland Tavern has been serving NDG since 1995, but longevity's only part of the story. Chef Josh Crowe and co-owner Barbara Irwin deliver a menu dedicated to seasonality and sharp technique—wild mushrooms from Hochelaga, crudo that cuts straight to summer, handmade pasta in butter-laced sauces. Regulars trust the chef's menu, a freestyle tasting built around your preferences and the day's finds. The wine list balances natural-leaning bottles with classic picks. Refined yet rustic—turquoise walls, white tablecloths, a long wood bar lined with locals.

In Saint-Henri, Elena emerges as a testament to Italian cuisine reimagined. Opened in 2018 by the team behind Nora Gray, the spot pays homage to inspiring individuals like Elena Pantaleoni while integrating seamlessly into the neighbourhood. Emma Cardarelli and Janice Tiefenbach craft dynamic iterations of Italian classics—artisanal pizzas, homemade pastas—complemented by Ryan Gray's meticulously curated natural wine list. A modern trattoria with soul.

Dobe & Andy is a Cantonese BBQ joint in Chinatown that delights with straightforward, delicious fare inspired by Hong Kong's food scene. Since 2019, the Ku family and Webster Galman have charmed diners with authentic, well-crafted meals at pocket-friendly prices. Succulent crispy pork roast, savoury curry braised beef, and a communal approach reflecting deep family ethos. A taste of dedication wrapped in warmth.

Celebrity chef concepts have a rough history in Montreal; MARCUS is the exception that explains the rule. Marcus Samuelsson's name is on the door of this third-floor Four Seasons space, but executive chef Jason Morris—of the late, lauded Le Fantôme and Pastel—runs the kitchen, threading Nordic, Japanese, and Mediterranean influences through Quebec's seasonal larder. Seafood is the anchor: towering plateaux, sharp crudos like yellowtail with chilis and wheat berries, a robata grill section, and the signature Spaghetti Picadilly with lobster and uni butter. Atelier Zébulon Perron's design moves from oceanic lounge to forest-toned bar to a 300-seat terrace, and head sommelier Alexandra Guay's cellar mixes private imports with bolder discoveries. Built for high-rollers and expense accounts, sure, but an elegant cocktail hour downtown is open to anyone. Luxury hotel dining that took Montreal seriously.

Chef Robin Filteau Boucher's dream becomes reality with Parapluie in Little Italy. Partnering with maître d'hôtel Karelle Voyer and Simon Chevalier, the 30-seat spot serves French-inspired dishes crafted with seasonal ingredients at accessible prices. Standouts include ravioli in brown butter, Montreal-style trout on horseradish sauce, and eggs mayo with poached lobster. Karelle curates the wine; mixologist Félix Pagé Blouin handles cocktails. A room designed for dropping in and lingering.

Le Violon, in the former Maison Publique space transformed by Zébulon Perron and co-owner Dan Climan, was highly anticipated from the day it was hinted at. Chef Danny Smiles leads a team including co-executive chef Mitch Laughren and chef de cuisine Sara Raspa. The elegant room—veined Portuguese marble, white tablecloths, Parisian green features—orbits Climan's paintings. The refined menu features diverse influences: tahini-drizzled kibbeh nayyeh, gochujang-glazed sweetbreads, strawberry shortcake. Exquisite food, beautiful settings, impeccable service.

The name honours Charles McKiernan, the 1800s tavern keeper whose nickname launched an empire—so it's fitting this sprawling luncheonette comes from the Joe Beef group in partnership with Derek Dammann, formerly of Maison Publique. Set on the second floor of the Dompark building with floor-to-ceiling windows over the Lachine Canal, it began as a catering operation feeding the complex's workers and evolved into one of the Sud-Ouest's best restaurants in its own right. Dinner is great; lunch is the play. The easy-going menu might hold roast chicken in a velvety sauce Alexandre, an artfully layered muffuletta, a couple of classic pastas, and a seasonal special or two—plus doughnuts that rank among the best anywhere. German beer-hall tables, wooden canoes overhead, craft beer and natural wine flowing: a culinary event disguised as a lunch counter.

Yans Deli is the kind of place that could only come from a chef like Benji Greenberg—trained in fine dining, raised on Friday night briskets, and finally fed up enough to do things his own way. After seven years at Joe Beef, he walked away from the chaos and into a lifelong dream: a modern Jewish deli that actually reflects the way he eats. That means housemade pastrami and veal schnitzel for brunch, but also proper soup, steak and eggs, and a setup that welcomes everyone from families with strollers to folks dropping in after shiva. It's rooted in memory—Romanian-style eggplant salad, Grandpa's seafood cocktails—but sharpened by years in the kitchen trenches. If you're expecting a nostalgia act, look elsewhere. This is comfort food with a backbone, served in a spot built to last.

Some restaurants try to make a splash. Molenne just feels like it's always been here. Housed in a former hay depot from Montreal's first racetrack, this brasserie is built on layers of history: banquettes salvaged from Théâtre du Nouveau Monde, chimney plaques repurposed as décor, a 32-year-old fridge given a second life. But don't mistake it for a nostalgia act. Chef Louis-Joseph Rochefort (Attica, Australia) turns brasserie staples into something sharper: black cod in shiitake broth, braised cabbage with escargots, white charcutière sauce. Gia Bach Nguyen runs the bar with cocktails on tap, while a 5,000-bottle wine cellar stocks everything from rare vintages to solid $50 picks.

Luca Vinci and Victor-Alex "Coach Vic" Petrenko started Pasta Pooks in their Plateau apartment during the pandemic, trading lasagnas for tattoos and running pop-ups out of borrowed kitchens. Years later—after cooking in some of the city's best restaurants and feeding festival crowds, backyard parties, and late-night regulars—they finally have a place of their own.

The Little Italy counter keeps things tight: handmade pasta, sandwiches on fresh-baked bread, a few antipasti. Chef Kai Fox helps run the kitchen, and the energy is exactly what you'd expect from two guys who built this thing by hand. Ten seats at the counter, a chalkboard menu, plates landing hot from the pass.

David McMillan says one of the last restaurants he'd ever open would be in the West Island, where he grew up and still lives—and here it is, alongside Marché de l'Ouest in Dollard-des-Ormeaux, reuniting him with Derek Dammann of the late Maison Publique. Both chefs now farm—Oka and St-Armand, respectively—and the restaurant is built to close that loop, with their own animals, wines, and vegetables working into the menu.

With chef de cuisine Melinda Gorman running the pass, the cooking is the pair's greatest hits stripped of ceremony: rotisserie chicken with piccata butter, Salaberry steak in mushroom Madeira sauce, sausage coils over coals, baked oysters with white ragù, and a chicken soup they're rightly proud of. McMillan designed the massive harvest-table room himself, kitschy folk art and all.

It sounds cliché but it’s true: No tasting menus, no pretension—two bistro guys cooking for their neighbours.

Asked about best-of lists, McMillan says he doesn't care about any of that.

Sorry, Dave.

The name means a space between—between time and place, between your day job and your bed, as chef Harrison Shewchuk puts it. Opened in March 2025 in the former Marconi space on Mozart, Limbo reunites Shewchuk (ex-Salle Climatisée) with maître d' Jack Zeppetelli and the Pichai-Pumpui partners, and the band-back-together energy is real. The kitchen draws on French, Italian, and British canons—Shewchuk jokes about worshipping "all the Alains": Passard, Chapel, Senderens, Ducasse—filtered through Quebec farms like Parcelles and Ferme d'Orée. Crusty einkorn bread with compound butter opens things; pommes dauphine with mouclade has been on since day one; beef tartare arrives with consommé gelée and trout roe. Henri Murray pours zero-zero wines, Élo Lavallée-Davis shakes a rice-vinegar martini, and commissioned works by artist friends hang over burgundy banquettes. Rustic in roots, not in presentation—and one of the city's most compelling new rooms.