by ALICE AND YANKA

Tomorrow, the whole world will blow up into one gigantic chicken breast. Yes! The world's about to become a fried, dead, corporate chicken breast, and we advise everyone who doesn't like their job very much to take a day off and wait patiently for The Discharge. We learned of tomorrow's great events via a chance encounter with a fine fellow standing in a claustrophobic doorway, pallid-faced, slurring faintly our way. Our hair and mascara were frozen solid: la STM had screwed us up yet again, grrrrrr, so we stumbled closer to our new friend, for there was something quite warm about him. We inquired:

- C'est quoi ton nom?

- Judas.

- Tu viens d'où?

- Laval.

- Kess tu fais?

- Chu sul chauffage.

- T'aimes la musique?

- J'aime Gwar.

Then came his prophecy... needless to say, a drink or six were much needed after this impromptu meeting, so we ventured into the dim space right next door. This turned out to be the Réservoir and we aimed for the darkest table against the back wall, always a most reassuring presence in such times of why the hell have we landed here, ciboire! The view was most exquisite for our chilly viscères: a (bolted) roomful of enticing inox tanks, pregnant with malts, hops and love. We soon imagined ourselves splattered on the floor, suckling away at these containers like famished lambs.

The place was almost empty, but the glasses were going tin, tin, tin as pints filled up under the taps. Home-brewed beer is the specialty of the house, but feel free to experiment, and expect a call from your stupid banker when you pay for your intrepid sense of drink: $29 for four vodkas, two cans of Limonata and a pack of smokes. And be warned: on Monday, Oct. 27, @ 10 p.m., it proved impossible to get our dirty paws on Wild Turkey, or 7-Up. Yanka? I can't hear you, the silly theatre student sitting next to us is out of control with his egotistical stories, yelping his me-myself-and-I epics all over the music, which is, for its part, digne d'un grand rave kétaine. Eh oui, same ol' soundtrack du samedi soir chez les cools.

Yo, j'ai faim, mama. Chef Midi, please bring on the snacks! We chose carefully. The puzzling speck - viande? végétal? métal? - and the sandwich pressé au porc, bacon & sweet mustard made the team. The speck was sliced into the thinnest of shavings ever to be seen. Pink and translucent, like silk paper, le speck might remind one of prosciutto, yet it's far superior in taste while sparing you les dirty lamelles de gras that are typically inherent to the latter. It was accompanied by a few happy side friends: purée d'haricots blancs, pepperonata et pain grillé, le tout servi sur planche de bois.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm" is all Yank can say upon tasting this merveille, and a footnote to call the owner and find out if the speck may come home with one of us is quickly scrawled in black marker on a forearm. The sandwich, le beau sandwich, is a volcano of melting hot stuff, une crisse de bonne éponge à malheurs! Odd beet sticks flank his Highness, who, frankly, needs them like we need winter. Mais si la moutarde doit me monter au nez, Yanka, ça serait chouette que ce soit la moutarde sucrée du sandwich au porc pressé. Whitey's soul food, indeed.

The goat cheese munchie silenced us in no time when it pulled up on a white plate. Nooooon. We want the planks back! Joyfully ignoring the chef's years of culinary training, we mashed the whole deal together, cheese and watercress merrily becoming one big tasty enjoyable mess. We called it "Notre smash de chèvre," threw our plastic over the wooden bar and prepared for the day looming ahead.

Reservoir
ADDRESS: 9 Duluth (corner St-Laurent)
BEER TANKS ROOM: 9a Duluth
TELEPHONE: 849-7779
CREDIT CARDS: Everything except Amex, but who needs Amex.
HOURS: Mon-Fri noon-3AM; Sat-Sun 11AM-3AM
ROI: Le Speck
FLOP: The white set de vaisselle
RATING: Sure beats eating at PKP!