The dining theatrics and dark history of Montreal's infamous restaurant Au Lutin qui Bouffe

Montreal's never been short on weird and/or wonderful dining destinations and experiences, but few in the city’s history have leaned into spectacle quite like Au Lutin qui Bouffe.

Past its old-world façade, one would find a landmark of indulgence and eccentricity, a place where diners could savour a plate of tournedos Rossini while a tiny piglet was bottle-fed at the next table.

But the whimsy of Au Lutin qui Bouffe's fine French cuisine and now-infamous piglet photography sessions would over time develop into a darker story of crime, ambition, and a tragic end—but together, these stories would cement the restaurant’s place in the city’s lore.

Restless, but visionary

The restaurant’s origins trace back to a young chef named Joseph McAbbie (aka B.J. McAbbie), who inherited his family’s home on Saint-Grégoire Street in 1932, where his parents had once run a humble grocery store. McAbbie was born above that grocery store. McAbbie didn't care much for retail, and instead wanted to establish a full-scale dining experience that would put his mark on Montreal’s nightlife.

He transformed the building, adding architectural details like stucco and faux half-timbering inspired by Normandy-style cottages. By 1938, the place was reborn as Au Lutin qui Bouffe, a name that roughly translates to "where Lutin gorges himself", based on a character the restaurant created:

"Who is Lutin? When you visit Au Lutin qui Bouffe you will read the true story of this amazing, elf-like pixie who is your host. Born in France no one knows how many hundreds of years ago, he was a noted trouble maker, with an insatiable appetite for fine food... Lutin was particularly destructive at great state banquet [sic] where he would enter the kitchens before the meals were served, stuff himself, and then sabotage the remaining food while the chefs were not looking. How he came to Canada, how he discovered the house on St. Gregoire Street, and how and why he put away his impish practices to become an eternal benefactor of the house, is all recorded on the menu."

No one has ever met Lutin personally, but all who visit his house can testify to his presence, for Lutin has become the very soul of hospitality and gracious living.

Because it was a remote location at the time, McAbbie cultivated a theatrical, almost fairy-tale atmosphere to draw in customers. Diners entered a cozy, low-ceilinged space lit by warm sconces, the walls lined with pastoral oil paintings and heavy wooden beams, as well as a 1,000 square foot mirror (the largest of its kind in Canada at the time).

A roaring stone fireplace sat at the heart of the dining room dressed in checkered tablecloths and thick wooden chairs. The air must've smelled of sizzling steaks from the charcoal broiler, mingling with the scent of cognac and butter-laced sauces. A thick carpet muffled the footsteps of hurried waiters. The effect was part European inn, part Montmartre cabaret—especially when live music and operatic performances were introduced later on (it was, apparently, Canada's only 'opera restaurant' at the time).

However one would look at it, Au Lutin qui Bouffe was a scene of rustic refinement, a place to escape modern Montreal without ever leaving the Plateau.

A mascot of controversy

Then there was the piglet—or, more accurately, a rotating cast of piglets. From the late 1930s onward, Au Lutin qui Bouffe introduced an unusual dining tradition: customers could pose for a photograph while bottle-feeding a piglet. The tiny mascot would be carried from table to table, perched on a rolling cart, snuggling into the arms of amused patrons. Jean-Paul Cuerrier, the restaurant’s resident photographer, documented these encounters for decades, capturing thousands of diners cradling piglets in their arms.

The fate of these piglets? Officially, no one knew. Unofficially, the menu featured pork cutlets with apple sauce, leading to widespread speculation about a rather grim full-circle dining experience. It was macabre, bizarre, and deeply on-brand for a restaurant that thrived on the tension between charm and excess.

The piglet gimmick was polarizing. Some diners found it charming, while others saw it as unsettling. But it worked—customers left with tangible souvenirs, framed snapshots that ended up in countless family photo albums.

Decades later, when photographer Michel Campeau stumbled upon one such photo while cleaning out his mother’s belongings, he was so intrigued that he placed a classified ad seeking similar images. The response was overwhelming—over 200 people sent in their own piglet portraits, proving just how deep the restaurant’s legacy ran.

For the elite and the curious

As many famed restaurants in Montreal go, Au Lutin qui Bouffe went from a local curiosity to a go-to destination for both Montrealers and international visitors. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the famed author of The Little Prince, dined there in 1942, though whether he met the piglet is unknown. American tourists who struggled with the restaurant’s French name would simply tell cab drivers to take them to “the place with the little pig”, and they would arrive at McAbbie’s doorstep.

McAbbie’s love for the arts extended beyond his restaurant’s décor—he also operated an art gallery within the restaurant, showcasing works by emerging Quebec artists, including Paul Vanier Beaulieu. Aspiring painters and sculptors worked as servers, using their wages to fund their studies in Europe. By the late 1940s, McAbbie even established a foundation supporting young artists at the École des Beaux-Arts de Montréal, a legacy that continued well after his death.

Expansion, with restraint

Business boomed, and by 1945, McAbbie embarked on an ambitious expansion. He purchased the neighbouring duplex, demolishing it to make way for a second turret and tripling the restaurant’s footprint. The new design, crafted by architect Charles Grenier, gave the restaurant the appearance of a rustic French manor house, stretching across much of the block between Saint-Hubert, Resther, and Saint-Grégoire.

But the post-war years brought change. The piglets, once allowed to wander the dining room freely, were now confined to their carts. The reason remains unknown—perhaps changing hygiene standards, or perhaps diners had grown less keen on finding a pig rooting under their table. Either way, the spectacle remained, just with more restraint.

Murder at the Lutin

The fantasy came crashing down in 1953 when McAbbie met a gruesome end. On the night of January 18, after closing up, he received a call from a customer claiming his wife had left her purse in the restaurant’s restroom. Trusting the caller, McAbbie unlocked the door—only to be ambushed by five robbers, four men and one woman, who believed the restaurant’s safe held $10,000 in cash.

The heist went sideways. The criminals, led by Gerald “Gerry” McKuhen, a known Montreal thief, panicked when McAbbie resisted. In the struggle, McAbbie was shot in the head but managed to survive long enough to describe his attackers to police before dying three days later in the hospital. The robbers got away with only $3,500—a far cry from their expectations.

Quick side note: McAbbie once flew to Africa, where he was the guest of Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, and later visited Dr. John Williamson, former Montrealer who now owns a fabulous diamond mine in East Africa. While there, he hunted hippopotamuses, lions, and water buffalo—heads of the animals were mounted in his living quarters above the restaurant.

That said, after the robbery when picked up in the foyer, he told police: “I was suspicious about these people, but I opened up anyway. I figured if I could handle a lion I could handle a robber.”

Montreal’s homicide squad launched an extensive manhunt, eventually tracking McKuhen to Texas, where he had assumed a new identity. He was arrested in 1954, along with his accomplices, including his girlfriend, Gertrude Servant, who dramatically escaped from Montreal’s Fullum Street women’s prison before being recaptured.

The trial in 1955 was sensational, dominating headlines and ending with McKuhen and two others sentenced to life in prison. Servant received 10 years.

The final curtain

Despite the tragedy, the restaurant carried on. In 1957, it was purchased by Jean-Louis Lévesque, a powerful businessman who also owned the Blue Bonnets racetrack. He attempted to modernize Au Lutin qui Bouffe, bringing in opera singers to perform while patrons dined, hoping to capture the spirit of Parisian cabarets. The restaurant also continued its commitment to the arts, hosting exhibitions and performances.

But the magic was fading. By the 1970s, the once-beloved institution was struggling to maintain relevance. A 1971 Chicago Tribune article dismissed it as an overpriced tourist trap. The final blow came in September 1972, when a fire gutted the building, bringing an end to more than three decades of bizarre, theatrical dining.

Remarkably, both piglets inside the restaurant at the time survived the blaze.

The legacy

Today, there’s no trace of Au Lutin qui Bouffe—its former location is now home to a car dealership. But the legend lingers in the archives and in faded photographs tucked away in family albums. Those snapshots of diners cradling piglets serve as surreal reminders of a restaurant that blurred the line between the absurd and the elegant, a place where French cuisine, art, and pure spectacle collided under one roof.