Is the South Shore of Montreal the new poutine capital of Quebec?

This story originally appeared in URBANIA, an online magazine based in Quebec focused on pop culture and society.

I firmly believe that the best poutine in Quebec is a myth; no single place can claim to be the ultimate champion over all others. In my view, the true beauty of this dish lies in its diversity. Each poutine is unique and irreplaceable, offering its own delightful surprise with every first bite. That’s what makes the quest to find the best poutine so enticing.

“Maybe this unassuming roadside casse-croûte is the one that will change everything?” we might think, filled with hope while lost somewhere in Beauce or along Route 117.

Recently, however, it’s hard to ignore that the biggest names in poutine are increasingly gravitating toward the South Shore of Montreal—Chez Monique, La Récré, Alfa, Diabo's, Chez Grégoire—just a few of the many establishments that continue to emerge and evolve.

Could this region be transforming into the epicenter of poutine in Quebec? Subtle yet impactful, it attracts both newcomers and seasoned enthusiasts, turning the suburban archipelago into a veritable hotspot for skouik-skouik aficionados.

When a colleague introduced me to our new 18-year-old intern—who also happens to be the boss's son—they asked me to take him into the field. I had nothing planned for the day, so I seized the chance to suggest a ride through the 450 area code to investigate the rumors, bond with the intern, and indulge our appetites.

This rainy day offered the perfect opportunity to observe and engage with a genuine Zoomer born after 9/11, aiming to decode a generation of vape smokers in baggy pants fluent in Franglais.

“Hop in, kiddo.”

Chez Lina

Our odyssey across the bridge is set to kick off in the suburb of La Prairie at Chez Monique, a recently renovated casse-croûte. However, as we pull into the parking lot, a small white and blue restaurant next door catches our attention: L'arrêt des sportifs. A faded sign boasts about lunches, smoked meat, and submarine sandwiches. On a whim, we decide to switch things up and add it to our itinerary.

Stepping inside, we find ourselves surrounded by retro tables and a counter painted in a unique shade of blue. We meet the owner, Lina, who has been running the establishment solo for 28 years.

“I love what I do, and I hope it shows. I cook with passion for the joy of hosting,” she shares with us. Every day of the week, she crafts a different menu. “Today, it’s cream of leek,” she tells a regular who knows her by name.

And the poutine? Absolutely delicious. I burned my tongue on it, but it was still perfection.

She offers it to us with a smile that lingers just as brightly as ours.

Chez Monique

Overwhelmed by such warmth, we make our way to our next planned stop, which has its own friendly vibe, though it feels a bit more commercial than the previous one. The clerk mistakenly thinks I’m here to help my son with summer job applications, but we’re just here to share “une petite à deux”. The service is efficient, and while the dish is well-prepared, the gravy leaves us scratching our heads—truly perplexed.

Right from the outset, let’s steer clear of trendy ratings like 7.8, 4.2, or 9.3; this obsession with numerical hierarchies drains me. I prefer a broader, less precise evaluation. What truly matters is the overall experience, and at Chez Monique? It’s a blast.

As we dig into our meal, the intern and I chat about everything and nothing - love, travel and dreams. What are his aspirations in life? The idealism of youth makes everything seem possible. We also reflect on how our CEGEP film instructors have shaped our perspectives on cinema today. We just try to bond.

Our next destination, tucked away in the Longueuil countryside, is the casse-croûte La Récré. Though relatively obscure, it has been steadily gaining loyal patrons, thanks in large part to its monstrous portions of cheese.

However, our excitement quickly turns to disappointment when we spot a sign announcing their closure from 2 PM to 4 PM. How very European of them. With no other option, we find ourselves muttering curses at the empty restaurant.

Alfa Hot-Dog

Still in the charming city of Longueuil, the GPS directs us to Alfa Hot-Dog, an institution dating back to the 1970s. The walls are adorned with photos of legendary Montreal Canadiens players, and bags of red potatoes are scattered among hungry customers. Orders are announced the old-fashioned way over a PA system:

“Une régulière pour ici,” and the kitchen staff responds seamlessly. In an instant, a spectacularly hefty poutine lands on our tray.

A layer of orange BBQ sauce covers it, reminiscent of my hometown, Drummondville, where people proudly claim to have invented this national dish. This slightly sweet sauce transports me back to my childhood; sometimes, my father would take me out for lunch at a place called Café Saint-Pierre next to my elementary school, and we would share a poutine. Few words were exchanged, but those moments were simple and precious.

Perhaps it was my subconscious that led me here to share this culinary experience with the intern, mirroring the connection my father and I had, not entirely sure how to engage with someone younger.

"Shall we continue 'La tournée des grands-ducs'?" I ask.

"What does that mean?" he replies.

"It’s not important; I’ll explain it to you."

Diabo's

Diabo’s is a bit of a wildcard on our itinerary: located on Mohawk territory in Kahnawake, it’s a cantine known for its delivery service and renowned for its poutine, which has already left a strong impression on me. The place cuts its own cheese curds—a rare feature—and is attached to a general store that sells unusual items like ZYN, Four Loko, and loose cigarettes in Ziplocked bags.

“Two forks, please,” I request.

However, during our visit, the sauce completely falls flat for reasons I can't quite pinpoint. Perhaps our taste buds are overwhelmed by the mountain of sodium we've consumed so far, rendering us unable to discern any subtle flavors? It’s disappointing, but I suppose that’s part of the game.

Stuffed to the brim, I try to manage my expanding belly, realizing that although the young intern is well-intentioned, his weak constitution and small appetite aren’t helping me finish off the dishes.

Stuck in traffic, we seize the moment to continue discussing the things that unite and divide us, whether it’s tattoos, old cigarettes, relationships, or school. I share the mistakes I’ve made and the small successes I wish I’d achieved earlier.

Amid the honks and frustration of the road, I offer unassuming bits of advice, hoping to guide him through the dizzying transition into adulthood.

I can’t help but notice that the challenges he faces mirror the ones that fueled the person I was just a few seasons ago.

Chez Grégoire

Our final stop is Chez Grégoire in Mercier, a well-regarded Belle Province that stands out for its superior quality. When our buzzer goes off, we know our order is ready.

François, the owner, is always on-site and is frequently mentioned as having the best poutine in Quebec. While that title is enviable, he remains humble: “Taste is subjective. I don’t claim such things. What matters to me is that everyone feels welcome, that you eat well, and that the place is clean. That’s my job,” he explains with the air of a local legend.

The poutine is delicious, but we struggle to get our plastic forks into it; at this point, the fifth serving feels like a bit much.

I can’t help but ponder, “Is there a greater sin than reheating poutine in the microwave?” just as François surprises us with an extra poutine-dog—a local specialty featuring Quebec’s national dish atop a steamed hot-dog bun.

"My father opened this place nearly 80 years ago. I have three sons working in the kitchen. I’m happy it’s become a tradition; it makes me very, very proud," he says, shaking our hands with a firm grip.

His generosity highlights that the culinary arts, while popular and abundant on this grey day, fundamentally embody the idea of passing down traditions, fostering convergence, and nurturing family ties.

I’m not aiming for a Pulitzer with this article, but during this journey, these small traditions endure and thrive, passed from father to son. I find myself stepping into the role of the big brother I never was and the one I never had, attempting to fill the gaps my father may have left unoccupied.

At the end of this marathon, one thing becomes clear: Much like these dishes, in the multigenerational space where a fading millennial intersects with a promising young Gen Z, we may be different, but not by much (except maybe that I check my phone less often than he does).

And so, I arrive at a somewhat unremarkable conclusion: Every poutine we sampled deserves to be savored—some perhaps more than others, like the unbeatable Alfa—but who am I to dictate your appetite?

Above all, be sure to pay Lina a visit. She’ll brighten your year.

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