We all spent the 30 minute drive down to Griffintown steeped in silence.

It was noon by then and our tummies were desperate to chow down on some good old Filipino food that somehow made its way to Montreal, packaged in a hip, trendy, spot called Junior. Maybe the reason we were so quiet is because we are still pondering over the biggest existential crisis a Filipino man would be wrought with.

Tapsilog or Tocilog?

brunch in junior filipino food

The place was crowded and filled with young people, the kind who would spend money buying fancy sneakers than on anything else. I know saying “young people” will make me feel old, but I’ve always been so hopelessly out of the times that I don’t even bother to find out what is cool any more.

junior in griffintown

I can’t attribute this sort of restlessness to anything in particular.
But sitting in that cool bistro with the corrugated steel roof that stirs up my memories of backpacking in the Philippines, of riding in a habal- habal, drinking tuba or red horse and feeling so absolute.

I took out my frustrations on the food. The rice wasn’t garlicky enough and the tapa, too tender. I wanted the Maillard reaction on my charred meat, lovingly cooked by a harried chef. I needed comfort food, the kind of familiarity that breeds nostalgia.

junior in griffintown

Good thing I don’t do food reviews, it would be so unfair to restaurants if I based my critiques on a question this trivial; “Did the food stay true to its soul?” Aside from how ridiculous an answer could be gleamed from it, that sort of nirvana cooking only comes every so often. Most likely under incredibly unique circumstances. The breakfast I had at Junior in Griffintown felt like something that resembled Filipino food, if it isn’t made for Filipinos. It can be a good thing, but for someone who expects salty, dried up, oily chunks of meat on a bed of haphazadly fried rice with chunks of garlic on top. I think I’ll skip the long commute and just cook it myself. But I’ll still be back at night for the sisig.

sainte catherine montreal

I don’t know why SAD is so common in Montreal, it’s such a beautiful city and chock-filled with crazy people. Ooops, I think I just answered my question. Seasonal Affective Disorder usually manifests as Winter Depression which I don’t have because during the peak of winter, I usually spend my time on a great big adventure. It is fair to say that someone may have summer blues but I don’t think that’s possible with all the shenanigans the city has at that time.

My self- diagnosis is that I don’t have SAD, I’m just sad.

improv montreal

What could possibly be more therapeutic that laughter? Honestly, the desire to do comedy could not be farther down the line of things I want to do in my life. But it was there and it was free. So why not just do that thing rather than spend another afternoon draining my life juices into my menial, soul crushing job.
A beautiful and warm Sunday evening. Spent at Theatre Saint Catherine.
On my very first Improv Workshop.

theatre saint catherine improv workshop

The people who had the same idea as me couldn’t have been more random, an interesting bunch who share the same common denominator which would be

“There’s a tick, inside my brain. It’s serious.”

There was an amazing chemistry between the workshoppers, no trace of drama between us, that sort of thing would be expected from a Drama Collective, where every single one has to be a star and everyone else is just the zany sidekick. But in the comedy circle, people just have this big Hug Me sign.

Many things can take a cubicle warrior out of a rump, I know this even if I am not one. Yet. *shudders* my fellow participants said things about their daily routine and how they needed to have a break from it all.

To be a comedian all you need is a bad childhood and a leather jacket. – Someone.

Comedy is a rebellion.

saint catherine improv workshop

Beer. Laugh. Grilled cheese.
Lather rinse repeat.

Not a bad way to spend my Sunday, indeed.