Most expats are alcoholics. You’re a lone foreigner in a new country; really, what else is there to do? So, arriving in Montreal in the dead of winter, I did my best to resist the sway. 

To some extent, I succeeded. I was only house-sitting for the winter, after all. As I charted my surroundings, I quickly learned that staying warm is the name of the game. When the numbness begins to set in at the tips of your fingers, it’s time to cease your aimless exploration and pop into the nearest bar. In this accidental way, I stumbled upon what would become my regular spot, a little Italian steakhouse on a cobblestoned corner of Montreal’s Old Port.

It’s here that I would discover the cocktail that might just hold the power to save the West from its decline. In an atrophied world of canned cocktails, bagged wine, and watered-down beer, take a sip of the past and a daring leap into the future: become a Negroni Nationalist. 

These days, no matter what city you’re in, it’s tough to find a restaurant that doesn’t suffer under the weight of corporate management. Yet it immediately became clear my new spot had a personal touch that stood out from the rest of the neighborhood. With walk-ins welcome and regulars abound, I quickly learned everyone’s name. Drinks flowed as freely as the conversation; there were no stodgily weighted pours, no ticker-marks on the wine glasses. By my third or fourth visit, whenever a newcomer stumbled in I was sure to recommend the beef tartare. 

It was around this time that I learned the sinful secret below....