Unfortunately for Dave Merheje, a 31 year-old Ontarian and winner of the Homegrown Comic award at the Just for Laughs festival in 2011, the positive clichés all belonged to the venue, Montreal Comedyworks on Bishop just south of Ste. Catherine. Tucked into the back of Jimbo’s Bar, this single room covered some classic expectations. There’s the cabaret set-up, each table topped with a little tealight in a decorated glass, and the redbrick backdrop to the stage, the likes of which you’d see on The Simpsons. It’s a formula, and it works.

But for a few years now, a bad cliché has been seeping into stand-up, namely the omnipresence of comedians with a minority heritage whose go-to-gags depend upon it. This style usually culminates in the hilarious impression of a kerraaaaazy parent that sorta talks funny-like. So goes the cliché, so went the evening.

The opening acts mostly adhered to the blueprint. Palestinian comedienne, Eman had some good lines about growing up with an Israeli BFF, friendly emcee Ali Hassan’s quotes from his proud Pakistani father were very moderate. Although born to Canadian parents, Fave Merheje’s recent tour “We Ain’t Terrorists” seemed to fall into the same trend of reliance on cultural stereotyping.

The premise of “Dear Dave,” however, seemed more novel. “Dear Dave” has been billed as this comedian’s ill-advised attempts to answer questions in the style of a “Dear Abby” column, the questions are from acquaintances, pre-recorded and played to Dave live on stage for the first time; his counsel must be improvised.

Though it was conceived and composed by a close friend in an effort to showcase the best of Dave’s comic style and personality – he is noted for his ability to rant a topic into the ground – “Dear Dave” never really took off.

Merheje possesses a lot of what a decent comedian needs. Twitching about the stage in frustrated and full-bladdered thrusts, his giant toothy grin encourages an inclusive, laugh-along affair. He’s as much a stage performer as he is a friend in a bar with an anecdote. The problem is nothing other than a lack of decent content.

Dave lays claim to a prolific gigging output – allegedly he’s played a show every night for the last six years, and has devoted a couple each week to his improv. But where pre-written jokes find an instancy and genuine empathy in his exasperated, incredulous barrage of swears and broken speech, improv is more fragile. Tonight, when Dave stops making sense, everything does. And the fallout is due to desperately embellished stories, perhaps fabricated, and full of logical missteps. Chaotic, off-the-wall tales are only funny when the question raised is ‘why am I laughing’, not ‘why would anyone’. Why would anyone laugh at someone incoherently ranting about this time they were caught taking and pushing pills in a club? “I thought the bouncer was gonna suck my dick!” Why, Dave? Why?

The above was a response to, “Have you ever used drugs?” This, and other such broad and boring queries, which were not in-keeping with the promising “Dear Abby” conceit, were clearly manufactured for maximum wiggle-room to bring in-tried-and-tested material (like oh, I dunno, stuff about having Lebanese parents). “I look like my Dad spun a globe and then fucked it!” beamed Dave. Good one Dave… Ba-dum-ch.

The post The laughing stock of Bishop street appeared first on The McGill Daily.

My Montreal-world does not include Montréal-Nord, a recently assimilated borough of near 90,000 people touching the river in the northeast, opposite Laval. A month ago, I didn’t know what Montréal-Nord was, nor where, nor that it even existed and, from what I could tell, neither did many McGill students. Upon informing someone that I was going to the little-heralded arrondissement, the stock response was nothing but a blank face – revealing in and of itself. To be fair, three guys in the smoking area of a Crescent Street dive were slightly more vocal in their unilateral advice of, “don’t go.”

The more politically aware among you recalled something about police violence and riots a few years ago, and the most informed even hesitantly offered up a name, Fredy Villanueva.

The public legacy of the neighborhood, particularly for most McGill students, appears to reach back just a few years to August 9, 2008. On that day, under still unclear circumstances, this 18 year-old Honduran immigrant was shot dead by the Montreal police (SPVM). Peaceful protests organized in response to his death gave way to riots – cars were set ablaze and three police officers and a paramedic were wounded, one of whom was shot. In a neighbourhood with rapidly shifting demographics due to immigration, and where 20 per cent of people speak neither French nor English, ther is a precedent for the SPVM’s notorious racial profiling.

Aside from this single, unhappy event, research about Montréal Nord was slow – the internet yielded little more than a fairly bare wikipedia page and an article somewhat ironically detailing the area’s isolation. Upon departure, all I had was a metro line and bus number scrawled on the back of my hand.

Rising up the escalator of metro stop Henri-Bourassa, I gradually traded the aesthetic familiar to my narrow, plateau-centric Montreal-world for the near novelty of a major bus terminal, over which a construction site loomed large. As it happened, just riding the bus into town I was given a crash course in Montréal-Nord.

The dreary route down Boulevard Henri-Bourassa, one of three multi-lane dual-carriage arteries- – delivering a daily flow of vans, trucks, and buses in and out of Nord, is lined by a dull sequence of garage-depaneur-pizza place strip malls. The monotony of the scene, while sobering for me, was a constant source of celebration for the toddler sitting opposite me, who delighted in shouting at me in Spanglish about every car and coche that slugged by. His mother, a twenty-something first generation Mexican immigrant, had recently moved away from Montréal-Nord, and talked about it in a very defeatist tone. She described how residents come from countries where there is no respect for the police and, conversely, the police here have a negative attitude. “It’s not the sort of place you want to walk around by yourself,” she readily admitted as I prepared to alight, alone. Her son was equally reluctant to see me abandon our vehicle spotting game, “We need to find mas!”

Entirely by chance, she told me that I happened to be getting off at Parc Henri-Bourassa, the site of the Fredy Villanueva shooting, where her mother still lived. I can’t say that I walked round a large proportion of Nord’s 11 square kilometers, but neither can I say that I ever felt threatened. The neighbourhood around the park, mostly white wooden panel bungalows, is not particularly notable, and spreads in this mold with the odd cluster of similar shops tucked in here and there.

The black population is manifest; cosmetic shops advertise most boldly their range of hair accessories and the local minimarket reserves a shelf for African woodwork pots. The urban blueprint continues all the way until you reach the next mega road, Boulevard Léger, hugged by slightly larger commercial parks, and including an utterly miserable bar. No music or conversation drowned out the ringing of middle-aged men and their beloved slot machines until the bored barwoman easily sumed up the difference between her and my Montreal-worlds: “The plateau?  Everything you need you can walk to.” Outside, waiting on another bus to take me to Pie IX, the third big fat boulevard of the borough, it seems she’s not wrong.

When it was amalgamated into Montreal proper in 2002, Montréal-Nord was the only borough not to retain its logo, and its Latin slogan, “The strengths of the citizens are the strength of the city,” does feel forgotten in a borough that seems to be lacking a strong identity.

And so, that logo is not to be found flying outside the red brick Town Hall, but in a historical compendium tucked away in a library further down the Rue Charleroi, a smaller, better Pie IX offshoot. Local newspaper, Guide de Montréal-Nord and pamphlets selling a full culture calendar indicate community cohesion, though the latter is essentially just commercials.

The aforementioned millennial compendium stretches back through 85 years of Montréal-Nord history and includes a commendation from then Quebec Premier Lucien Bouchard, “the production of this book testifies to your pride in and attachment to your living environment and the strength of your sense of belonging.” The “you” here is the Comité d’histoire de Montréal-Nord, whose team photo lies over the page and is as covered in old, white faces as the then town council pictured opposite. Neither appear more diverse than those on the next page, the class of 1935.

It’s difficult to judge the “sense of belonging” amongst such a shifting population, but it makes sense that one route to a stronger community – especially in overcoming the civil anger at civil authority out-shouting Nord’s apparently deep history – is the election of representative officials. As of 2009, the borough council has one black member to four white, and no ethnic minorities at all on city council. Obviously a delicate, complex situation, it feels as though this might be the first step toward instilling  pride in the newer residents that is so evident in its historians, the first step to ensuring that when a future ignorant student asks the downtown public if they know anything about Montréal-Nord, no one responds, “Yeah. Don’t go.”

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So where better to take him to warm up than Venezuela – obviously – where the temperature is currently a toe-melting 31°C? But my hopeful plans were dashed by those cold-hearted folk at The Daily who, refusing to bankroll a last minute flight, suggested I take him to Arepera du Plateau, the newish Venezuelan place on the corner of Duluth and De Bullion, to see if I couldn’t warm him up with traditional Latin American cuisine for less than $10.

Now, I know absolutely nothing about Venezuela, which is lucky for you as it keeps horrifically forced puns to a minimum, but stepping into the small-ish unit, the instant impression is one of authenticity meets gentrified cultural experience. It fits in on the plateau, where every single eatery has a tagline for your friends – even Champs, just a sports bar, has novelty value at its core. So, authentically, we have an open view of chefs baking and preparing arepas in the back, with plaintains and avocados spilling out of wooden buckets beneath the counter and chunky glass vats of colorful – dare I patronize – exotic juices on top. But in the same instant there is, framed upon the wall, an extensive and ornate rendition of the family tree of Simón Bolívar – think Latin American William Wallace but with loads and loads of genuine success. And then, just tucked in the top corner, a mocked-up lazy-man lies in a hammock enjoying a siesta, his hat pulled over his eyes while the neck of his guitar pokes off the edge. It’s a cross-over-the-threshold experience, from snowy, frostbitten Montreal to equatorial Venezuela, and it’s kinda nice – colorful juices on top

But onto the food. Essentially, an arepera is to arepas what a bakery is to bread or cinema l’amour is to…amour. Arepas themselves are a Venezuelo-Colombian thing, a kind of hefty, crunchy wrap with the mechanics of pita but closer to a baguette in the bite. They make up the bulk of the menu here with around 30 different ways of packing them full enough to fill, all for between five and nine dollars. My new-found vegetarianism, which I desperately wish to lose should any reader be willing to shoulder the burden, meant I could get a cheaper arepa – The Domino (black beans and cheese) is only $5 – with a sugar cane juice adding up to $8.50 pre tax and tip. There’s a decent selection for vegetarians and a lesser one for vegans (or “ultra vegetarianas” in Spanish), but should you want to spend a little more, Arepera du Plateau proudly caters to the omni in omnivore – wild boar and shark were the most fanciful creatures available.

The service is great. Our waiter was an extremely helpful dude who met my barrage of stale questions about heritage and history with a smile. Indeed, he was Colombian like a few other staff, but the two owners, one of whom arrived in Canada recently and the other, the chef, seventeen years ago, are both Venezuelan.

And here is the food critic’s dilemma. I don’t like Arepera. I think the bread is too sickly. I think the sugar cane juice is far too sweet. I find the fillings fall out and go all over you and burn your hands and make you look like a mal-coordinated toddler. And yet, almost everyone I know who has been there – eat in or takeaway – has come away singing about it. So, given the nice people, the integrity shown and the added variety it offers to an already diverse street, I shall put my misgivings down to personal taste and give it a hearty recommendation. As for my frostbite friend, he went absolutely Caracas for it. That’s just one pun. I’m not even sorry.

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So, in this new frontier, the face is the same, it’s the feel that’s different – these babies are made of plastic. Polymer, to be precise. Biaxially-oriented polypropylene, to be pedantic. Or even “Guardian,” to bloat it with the marketing grandeur intended by its Australian developers. The bills’ official slogan, “Secure. Durable. Innovative.” has already taken a small hit.  Yes, unfortunately the Frontier Series is essentially the same stuff your commonwealth cousins issued as far back as 1988. However, on those first two charges of security and durability the Bank of Canada, seems to have done rather well.

The soulless male voice of the official online trailer for the new $100 bill, out now as the series’ first release, enticed me a little sinisterly to ‘feel, look at and flick it’, to which I reluctantly complied out of pure journalistic conscience.  For features covering the “Secure” qualification, we have the ‘Frosted Maple Leaf Window’ (ooh!), the ‘Metallic Portrait’ (aah!), and the ‘Large Window’ (err…), all of which are designed specifically to reduce counterfeiting. As far as ‘Durable’ goes, advantages of living 2.5 times longer and being 30 per cent greener than current bills are impressive. Thus, the cost, to both the government – ultimately you – and the planet – ultimately your own great-great-grand nephews – is at least somewhat reduced.

These benefits are lovely and all, but admittedly a bit distant, a bit intangible. So if you’re like me and don’t plan on living six centuries to see polymer banknotes save mother earth, or have had very little exposure to the currency fraud scene, you’re probably more interested in the difference in going about your day with sheets of plastic rather than paper in your wallet, pocket, or purse.

First up is increased structural integrity. Polymer won’t rip, so bid farewell to that hilarious pretending-to-tear-your-friend’s-money-whilst-making-the-sound-with-your-mouth prank and welcome to the less hilarious, more psychotic cutting-your-pal’s-money-in-half-with-scissors prank.

In the current economic climate, it is very thoughtful for the Bank of Canada to have pushed ahead with their first “anti-banker note.” Any fatcat looking to blaze up an even fatter cigar with a new $100 dollar bill will simply see it melt in his hand before being knocked out by blackened fumes. Though it must be said I have this on the authority of a McGill science student, and not via expensive empirical evidence.

And yet the biggest plus is probably waterproofing. No longer must you be fear butterfingers whilst traversing Milton’s puddle gauntlet or fret over the unchecked pockets of pants hastily bundled into a communal wash – crippling concerns both!

On the other hand, it will pave a way for underwater transactions, which may be entirely wholesome affairs, but watch out for opportunistic drug dealers, stripped to their trunks at the local pool, seeking the added discretion of the deep end.

Now, let’s go back to the who and what of the new notes’ design. Essentially the “Frontier Series” does what it says on the tin, with images in homage to crucial Canadian contributions in the fields of space exploration, the Great War, travel, and science – one side of the $100 bill alone covers the discovery of insulin, the invention of the pacemaker, and the mapping of the human genetic code. That’s all great. Canadians are often subjected to jibes about their supposed lack of history, and adorning your money with the argument against is a direct route to enlightening the eyes of an ignorant tourist.

A tad more contentious is this issue of who gets their face on them. Functioning in one of the most ethnically diverse countries in the world, the dollar is handled by Canadians with ancestry from all corners of the globe. Despite the diversity of its carriers, it doesn’t take one long to notice a pattern in our currency’s design. Messieurs Robert Borden, William King, John Macdonald, Wilfrid Laurier, and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II are all very white and invariably WASPs, though I suppose Laurier would be a Norman, for all the difference that makes. Queenie is, to her credit, probably the most exotic on the list, being a woman and all, and those royals have all sorts of blood in them but she’s hardly a “Great Canadian.”

Look, as far as the Prime Ministers go, I’m sure they were all cracking legislators, statesmen and the like, but the blanket impression left on that aforementioned tourist by their collective currency domination is roughly, ‘Wow, Canada’s elected the same man over and over again’ – Macdonald genuinely looks like Laurier’s dad. Therefore, I propose an overhaul. If you want to know about Canadian PMs, go on Wikipedia. Let’s save the money for the biggest national names, ones which, as a foreigner, I have chosen to glean from the totally reputable www.canadians.ca. In terms of inventors, why not Haney & Abbott, the genii behind…trivial pursuit, or Gideon Sundback who masterminded…the zipper? Wait, hang on, Alexander Graham Bell created the telephone – that’s pretty nifty – but he only emigrated from Scotland when he was…twenty three? Oh god. Let’s try something else: most popular Canadians. Who’s number one? Pamela Anderson. For fuck’s sake.

So, maybe these Prime Ministers aren’t so bad after all. This Robert Borden character, who graces the $100 bill, has a really fantastic moustache.  No, no, we shall not settle. Here is my proposal, a new nationwide poll directed solely at finding the best faces, on the grounds of both aesthetic and achievement, for Canada’s money. Though the whole thing will probably have to be rigged to stop some ironic Facebook campaign electing Justin Bieber or Don Cherry. See what I said, traumatic.

The post Could Canada spare some change? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

This most macho of delicacies is so symbolic of Montreal that it’s oldest surviving and most sanctified exponent, Schwartz’s on Saint-Laurent, takes a place of honour in our city’s Lonely Planet guidebook. Yes, it’s the first image to greet your gaze upon turning page one. The very first part of this city that some tourists will see is not, say, an aerial panorama of Place Des Arts, swarming with tiny revelers bathed in the lights from some world renowned Jazz Festival; it’s not the Bell Centre, a sold out crowd erupting while some bearded bruiser starts throwing fists; it’s not even a gleaming, glistening, coronary baiting zoom shot of a La Banquise poutine. No, what we have is the inside of Schwartz’s Hebrew Deli. More accurately, it’s lots of old fashioned folks – cause smoked meat is so damn old – sitting on stools, backs to the camera hunched over something… Nope, can’t tell you what exactly. Whatever it is though, they are totally into it.

So, what is all this? And where did it come from? Wikipedia supplies various creation myths, but ultimately calls it an “uncertain and likely unresolvable” mystery. Some say one Herman Rees Roth came over from New York in 1908 and opened his British American Delicatessen Store. Other sources point to Romanian migrant Aaron Sanft, who braved the Atlantic in 1884 and founded Montreal’s first kosher butcher shop. Better known is the tale of Ben Kravitz. He reached Montreal in 1899 “with fifteen dollars and a bullet wound in his heel courtesy of a Polish border guard” and initially sold smoked meat, prepared in the style of farmers from his native Lithuania, from his wife’s fruit stand. And then there’s Levi Katz, a Latvian cow whisperer. Banished from his village following shadowy experimentation in bestiality, Katz washed up in the New World on a plank of wood with nothing but the clothes on his back and an ancient recipe tattooed to his inner thigh. That last one obviously isn’t true, but you get the idea.

The whole shtick is a heavily romanticized elaboration on the basic facts: smoked meat is a turn-of-the-twentieth-century Euro-Jewish thing, probably Romanian. It’s also supposed to be a family affair – a small diner with crowded chrome booths and menus on the wall next to photos of the storefront changing over time. For many slightly older Montrealers, Bens De Luxe Delicatessen & Restaurant was and will always be the archetype. Founded by the aforementioned Mr. Kravitz, Ben’s closed in 2006 two years short of its centenary under the ownership of his grandson, Eliot. It was a rather sad end, awash with union disputes and a waning fanbase disillusioned by rising prices and shrinking portions, while across town the enemy, Schwartz’s, seemed evergreen.

But the very fact that smoked meat is so renowned – the whole first page Lonely Planet factor, – means one thing: it’s been widely successful, and, with success, comes expansion from the family business blueprint, not to mention a predictable local backlash. So over a century on from its vague genesis, where does the Montreal smoked meat restaurant stand today?

For the less enchanting examples, head downtown, where Dunn’s Famous has one of its six Quebec branches – with a seventh coming to Vancouver soon. Moved from its legendary spot on Ste. Catherine to the current haunt on Metcalfe, the focus has slipped quietly away from smoked meat to the more homogenized feel of a North American steakhouse. But it’s not the Hard Rock Cafe by any stretch of your cynical imagination. Indeed, it’s still owned by the founding family, though the all singing, all dancing website – complete with TV spots featuring CGI mascot “Dillon Dunn” the dill pickle cowboy – is a far cry from the ideal, and is wholly geared toward the dreaded F-word: franchise. While we’re here, if you would like to start your own Dunn’s Famous restaurant – and why the hell not – please visit dunnsfamous.ca and apply online. Just make sure you have some idea on how you will “create a strong market presence for the brand,” as they so honestly put it.

Admittedly, it’s very easy, and pretty bitchy, to complain about a family business done well. But then, just think about the scene inside Schwartz’s. It’s so fantastically functional, isn’t it? There’s no need for any glossy trimmings, and most people don’t even look at the menu anyway. If the tourist masses and inflated reputation put you off, however, then head up to Outremont and the sleepier Lester’s Deli. Another pillar of the old school, Lester’s has been a mere sixty years at its current address on Bernard. It maintains all of the comfy charm and warm hospitality that my nostalgic mind impresses upon those pioneering restaurants of the early twentieth century. Plus, it features a near offensive amount of meat on display to satisfy those carnivorous founding fathers, Messieurs Roth, Sanft, Kravitz and, of course, Katz.

A friend from Ottawa, when I asked if she had any memories of old school places such as Ben’s, warmly recalled family trips to Montreal, stopping off for some smoked meat because it was “unlike anything we had at home.” That’s the crux; there are few things more Montreal than smoked meat, and how brilliant, if a little wishful, for that to remain the case. So, if you know of a small smoked meat place near you, then go along and support that little bit of meaty Montreal culture. Here ends my well-seasoned sermon for today. Amen.

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Embedded discreetly into the street-side, the small (I won’t say quaint, I won’t) space boasts three tiny tables exuding the tacit ownership of loyal customers. One particularly rugged patron is already here, in the corner, in a llama sweater, looking the part with a French paper fanned out. After all, we are near the corner of Saint-Denis and you would be advised to come armed with some elementary “Je voudrais…” led phrases so as not to be scoffed at by the proud mix of regulars and students on a worthy splurge; apparently Nicholas himself speaks no English, but he leads a welcoming, slick, and mostly bilingual team. They definitely know how good they are – not one of the four to whom I spoke expressed any excitement at a press opportunity – but only bear this awareness in a confidence and pride in their products, almost all of which are delicious.

“Au Kouign Amann” is Breton, the Celtic language native to the French region of Brittany. This initially unpronounceable name is taken from its signature dish, and literally means “butter cake.” Admittedly less alluring in translation, it does call a spade a spade. Vegans beware: these bakers do love their beurre. But, thankfully, the menu poses a far greater threat to your heart than your wallet, with most items set around the two dollar mark, including a delightfully dark hot chocolate and a coffee to placate even the most pretentious javaphiles. Croissants, chocolatines, Viennese baguettes, Tarte Tatin, and brownies are all present and entirely correct, fulfilling every cliched adjective I don’t want to use – light, crisp, golden, fluffy, et cetera – but it’s the almond croissant and trademark kouign amann that mustn’t be missed. The latter is simply several hearty layers of glucofied pastry, of which one slice is fine for breakfast, but a full circle ($21 when requested a day in advance) would be perfect for, let’s say, a study group lock-in. For the socially conscientious, there’s also soul behind the success. The fantastic in-house honey is sourced from a local Quebecker beekeeper, and apples from a struggling orchard outside Montreal. I am told that Monsieur Henri insists on the orchard more out of altruism than business sense. All the more reason to part with five dollars that will guarantee you a fine Montreal morning. I myself could spend days there. Well, at least three.

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“Dear Angus: Everything has a reason. You lost the story because there must have been some divine issue with it. Must be meant to be redone.”

Simultaneously optimistic, controversial, courteous, egotistical, and ever-sensitive to the divine order of things, these twenty-six words say much of what I learned about Rabbi Chaim Yehudah Gruber during the following evening…

Controversy is the buzzword here. It’s 8 p.m. on Parc, and the Rialto Theatre has just opened its doors for a one night show, to a most unusual crowd. To be precise, we’re on the corner of Bernard, an important detail considering that tonight, location is everything. Broadly, because we’re in outer Outremont, home to Canada’s largest Hasidic Jewish community, and, specifically, because the Rialto is a public, “secular” venue.

Host, sole-performer of “Redemption is Here,” and general budding social unifier, Rabbi Gruber is the catalyst for this rare blend. An aspiring teacher, renowned in local synagogues, he is the mastermind behind this “multi-media event.” While he circulates affably amongst a sparse crowd, giving interviews and conscientiously attending to the needs of what are more party guests than audience members, it is difficult to discern quite what he has in store. The stage is bare save for a lectern standing front and centre and a cloaked prop to one side.

My background research has unearthed little beyond the Rabbi-penned press release, in which he tags himself “Outremont’s most controversial Hasidic Rabbi” and gives a teaser of his story. Victim of an uncensored library copy of Maimonides, Rabbi Gruber accidentally began teaching that the Messiah’s return will bring all monotheisms under Judaism because, in some way or another, Christianity and Islam have both spread the word of the Torah. This idea, at odds with the insular and focused Hasidic way, thrusted the Rabbi into a negative, controversial limelight and caused his excommunication. This ban was lifted, but not before both his reputation and teachings were indelibly colored by the experience.

All of this was manifested in the event, the public crowd, and this oh-so-attractive murmur of controversy. Proof of how central the latter has become to this evening lies in the demographic of those in attendance. The journalistic presence outweighs all else, so much so that the enforced Hasidic dress code appears to have included mandatory notepad and pen. One industrious freelancer stops me, “Apparently there’s going to be a fight!”

Michaela Di Caesare, Communications Director at the Rialto, is more moderate, “It’s a very interesting social experiment…Everyday coming into work it just feels like the communities are so separate.” It’s easy to see. The single early-bird Hasidim sits stoically in the middle of the room, his isolation broken only for a brief word with the fight-mongering journo. “So many people are curious about these worlds colliding,” enthuses Di Caesare.

A late pack of Hasidim enter and head to a restricted upper-tier as we settle into a powerpoint presentation about the Hebrew alphabet. “I’ll be on in a moment!” comes a shout from the back, as it rapidly becomes clear this is one of the least theatrical events the Rialto has seen. Indeed, the Hasidim in the upper wings soon begin photographing the secular folk down below, illuminated generously by ever-shining house lights.

The audience adopts this peculiar irreverence, both Hasidim upstairs and public down below waiving the norms of their meeting space, the theatre. A journalist to whom the Rabbi gave a lengthy interview throws her head back in laughter at a private conversation; a camera-clad Hasidim moves downstairs and perches on my left, panning slowly across us, the wildlife.

Despite the Rabbi’s optimistic endeavour, Outremont’s social walls seem like they are unfortunately being reinforced rather than broken down, and it is not about to improve. During an explanation of his excommunication there is a sudden influx of near twenty Hasidim at the door. Huddled together, they appear like underagers who have snuck into the local bar. Some posture and strut about, others, more timid, dare not break the threshold. Their intentions are more ambiguous. Have they turned up this late to see the show? Or is the much-touted controversy materializing? Regardless, their presence rouses the already restless atmosphere.

Looking to placate, the Rabbi takes questions from the floor, which boiled down to “Why have you gone public with an Hasidic affair?” A further shift in mood suggests this is the crux, and likely the grievance, of our newest members. His responses, focused on a commitment to honesty and love, are fragmented by the need to firefight bubbling tensions in the upper tier. “Can I call for calm?” The plea sends heads scanning the Rialto, searching for just what is going on. The cloud of confusion thickens when two cops and a paramedic emerge from the Hasidic throng at the door. Rabbi Gruber concedes a timeout. As it turns out, he will not return to the stage.

Pressure from the theatre manager and the police bring an end to proceedings. Whilst they talk at length with an ever-smiling Rabbi, the Hasidim continue to discuss amongst themselves, moving freely around the theatre – they do seem hostile. One approaches me with hand outstretched but retracts the offer when his “Shalom” is met by my “Hello.” “Why have you come to see this man?” he probes, but leaves before hearing an answer.

Mindful to honour our interview, the Rabbi ensures I am not ejected with everyone else, before sitting down with a surprising opener, “I hope you enjoyed it!” Despite everything he is still the party host. “I think it’s great! I just got a call from a big rabbi in the community who was here, and he loved it.” As he denies any penchant for controversy, his commitment to “love and comfort” gains integrity by a faithful insistence that no Hasidim was hostile. “I’m going to say no… I’m just going to say it was a misunderstanding…and they wanted to come back!” But why choose this theatre in the first place? “It was chosen for me by these series of coincidences.” And where was it all going? I asked. “To wonderful places… I was going into a divine conversation and explaining how the Lord is everywhere.” Make no mistake; on matters of divine intervention and faith in his God, the Rabbi is his own honest and resolute arbiter. His role in the community, however, hangs on a jury we do not understand. But for Rabbi Gruber, it was thumbs up from the one judge that really matters, “The almighty must have intervened because he knew it was going to be…really good.” Incidentally, if you’re reading this, deem it divinely sanctioned.

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