What happened to the Latin Quarter?

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

For many of us, myself included, the Quartier Latin represents a first kiss with Montreal. A unique place that becomes a rite of passage for young people arriving from the far reaches of the province, seeking not just the thrill of their first drinks but the rush of urban life—the energy of the streets, the glow of the lights, and those unpredictable nights where anything feels possible. Schools, bars, and hole-in-the-wall eateries intertwine with cinemas, theaters, and music venues, weaving a bohemian tapestry where knowledge and art brush up against the margins and subcultures, accessible to those daring enough to explore them.

But let’s be honest: as seductive as it may be, this vision of the Quartier Latin belongs to a bygone era.

Yes, its institutions still stand: the Cinémathèque québécoise, the Grande Bibliothèque, the Vua sandwich shop. However, bastions like Café Chaos, Saint-Sulpice, and L’Escalier—once pillars of the neighborhood—have vanished.

Les Foufounes Électriques, survivors of that era, even saw their infamous bathrooms sanitized into a tame, sterile version.

The lower stretch of Saint-Denis, once a feverish strip with punk and alter-globalist textures, is now riddled with endless construction sites and abandoned storefronts. A brand-new KFC sits proudly in the middle, like a modern-day middle finger to the rebellious charm of the past.

Sure, you can still get your tongue pierced, buy new age crystals, or smoke at Café Gitana. Pizzeria Dei Compari, the Bordel Comédie Club, and Le P’tit Bar each fight, in their own way, to hold the line against the Subways, Sushi Shops, and their ilk—but the resistance crumbles like an old protest poster peeled away by the changing seasons.

Walking these sidewalks also means crossing paths with shadows dragging their tattered tarps through the storm, searching for shelter in the metro. The skeletal remains of bicycles, plywood-covered facades, and a profusion of graffiti give certain corners an air of desolation, made even starker by the wind-tossed debris. A woman, her face bruised with a black eye, pounds desperately on a window marked “For Rent,” screaming at the falling snow.

Hastily installed fences, meant to keep homelessness from settling in vacant patios, stand as a testament to a fragile coexistence. While many have decried the neighborhood’s growing insecurity, what lingers most is a sense of desolation. In front of the Burger King, two police officers pull on gloves before shaking awake an old man asleep on the ground. A scene so common it barely registers.

As for the dealers, they’re never far. “I just sold everything I had,” one murmurs to his accomplice. In the doorways of abandoned shops, people take turns shielding each other from the wind as they take their hit.

Sergio Da Silva, a well-known figure in Montreal’s music scene and owner of the Turbo Haüs venue and Café Big Trouble, has plenty to say about the state of the neighborhood.

“Drugs and trash have always been part of the landscape. What stands out now is the nature of the businesses. Every new opening is another fast-food chain. When we were younger, there were record stores, show bars, tattoo shops. There was a real reason to come here."

"Who would go out of their way for a student food court? What tourist would want to see that?”

It’s far easier to point fingers at homelessness than at a poke bowl.

Even though the Lonely Planet guide describes the Quartier Latin as the vibrant heart of Francophone cultural life, it’s no longer a secret that, despite some efforts to preserve its alternative spirit, the neighborhood is running out of steam—to the point of nearly losing its essence. Wedged between Cégep du Vieux and UQAM, students still pass through—and always will—but these days, perhaps with less money and less wild abandon. In 2025, who can picture the pink-haired intelligentsia philosophizing at 3 Brasseurs, 3 Amigos, or Bistro à JoJo?

“The cost of living has become a real problem. If my businesses rely on a young clientele, how do I keep going when they don’t have a dime in this economy?” Sergio asks, and rightfully so.

But why this collapse into a lack of authenticity?

Sergio Da Silva explains that the only ones who can afford the astronomical rents demanded by landlords are big franchises. Young entrepreneurs—those with bold visions and a willingness to take risks—simply don’t have the means to set up shop here. Instead, they gravitate toward busier arteries like Saint-Laurent or Mont-Royal. Those who dream of transforming the neighborhood, fostering a sense of community, and creating synergy between businesses struggle to find their place.

"It's a disaster! The vacancy rate for storefronts must be, what, 40%? Before the last wave of closures, there was still a party vibe. But there was never that crucial balance to make everything work together."

The upcoming opening of the new ADISQ offices could bring a breath of fresh air, with a live venue inside the building and the planned arrival of the École nationale de l’humour on the main strip in 2026.

Not to mention that the Maison de la chanson et de la musique du Québec is theoretically set to move into the Saint-Sulpice Library—an imposing relic requiring a colossal $50 million investment before any potential reopening. But beyond yet another nationalist initiative stamped by the CAQ, can we really believe it will inject genuine vitality into the neighborhood?

Despite everything, the Quartier Latin retains a certain je-ne-sais-quoi—like an old friend whose flaws, ever-present, eventually become endearing parts of their personality.

Julien Vaillancourt Laliberté was recently appointed head of the district’s Société de développement commercial. A graduate of both Cégep du Vieux and UQAM, he calls himself a child of the Quartier Latin.

He openly acknowledges that the neighborhood has changed since his first pitchers of beer. Saint-Denis Street has been battered by the pandemic, then inflation, endless construction, and a rise in hard drug use, all of which have amplified perceptions of marginalization and insecurity.

Though the neighborhood faces serious challenges, it is not doomed, assures the executive director, who laments media portrayals that often focus on abandoned storefronts. "Despite ongoing issues, pedestrian traffic increased by 16.8% over the past month compared to last year, alongside a 1% decrease in vacant spaces."

However, he remains critical of the ongoing construction projects, which he says impose prolonged sacrifices on local businesses—sacrifices that, according to his information, will continue for another decade. To mitigate the impact, he stresses the importance of financial compensation and better communication with the city. He believes that revitalizing the Quartier Latin will require bold projects with a strong social component, supported by grants and welcome programs.

"It is crucial to strengthen ties with community organizations and provide improved services to better meet the needs of the neighbourhood."

Sergio Da Silva, for his part, suggests implementing quotas on fast-food chains. By limiting their presence, he argues, the neighborhood could encourage real change through entrepreneurs eager to bring something different—something more in harmony with its cultural heritage.

Julien Vaillancourt Laliberté agrees that new fiscal policies could help counter the franchised gentrification that threatens the unique identity of Montreal’s commercial arteries.

The Quartier Latin now stands at a crossroads, caught between the weight of its past and the uncertainty of its future.

The real question is whether its rebellious spirit can be reignited—or whether it will continue to fade, making way for yet another piri-piri franchise.

And upon reflection, doesn’t this question extend beyond the neighborhood itself? Is it not Montreal as a whole that teeters between the brilliance of yesterday and the decline of today?

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