Nothing makes sense and everything works inside Chez Jean-Paul's kitchen

Isaël Gadoua took the scenic route to restaurant ownership. At 30, when many chefs are already running kitchens, he was just entering cooking school, having abandoned a mediocre jazz career and a string of retail jobs he wasn't fond of.

"I have no idea why I went back to cooking, to be honest," Gadoua explains from behind the counter of his 35-seat restaurant, Chez Jean-Paul. "I always liked it, but for 13 years I didn't work in restaurants."

A decade later, he's become one of Montreal's more distinctive culinary voices in recent years thanks to dishes that defy categorization but command devotion from a growing crowd of industry insiders and diners that lean adventurous.

Working under the banner of Chez Jean-Paul, the restaurant's name isn't some clever industry reference or personal branding exercise—it's an homage to Gadoua's grandfather, a larger-than-life character who introduced him to food's possibilities on fishing trips in the Quebec wilderness.

"He was an accountant at Sun Life, had a big belly, laughed hard, drank gin with club soda, which is disgusting," Gadoua recalls with obvious affection. "When his doctor told him to stop drinking wine at 68, he was depressed for six months. Then he said, 'Fuck it, I'm 68—if it's to give me two more years of not being happy, it's not worth it.'"

That spirit—prioritizing pleasure and authenticity over convention—runs through every aspect of Chez Jean-Paul.

From musical and culinary improv to an anti-restaurant restaurant

Gadoua's journey from jazz student to chef wasn't entirely random. Both disciplines demand technical precision before creativity can flourish.

"With jazz, it wasn't natural for me to practice eight hours a day," he says. "But when it came to cooking, my brain just goes there. I'm thinking about it all the time."

After talking his way into ITHQ (Institut de tourisme et d'hôtellerie du Québec) with an embellished résumé, Gadoua soon landed at Liverpool House within a month. He quickly moved on to Joe Beef where he spent three years learning classic techniques under Marc-Olivier Frappier of Mon Lapin. Over time, he accumulated experiences at the now-closed Paloma and McKiernan as well.

"I learned to make sauces the proper way—no xanthan gum, just reducing, using bones," Gadoua says. "It was in my nature to say, 'I'm not satisfied with that. How can I make it better?'"

Watching Gadoua operate Chez Jean-Paul feels like observing someone who's simultaneously in love with restaurant tradition while determined to fix everything wrong with it. The pandemic gave him time to reflect on restaurant culture's absurdities: the waste, the brutal hours, the toxic hierarchies that create tension between front and back of house staff. He designed his business to eliminate these problems.

There's only one seating per night. Tips are split evenly between kitchen and floor staff. The menu changes constantly based not just on seasons but on how many hands are in the kitchen.

"There's very little pan work now. All meats are grilled. Most garnishes are room temperature or cold that we can plate in advance," Gadoua explains. "When there are only two people in the kitchen and we're doing 35 covers all between six and eight, we need to be on point."

This isn't cost-cutting—it's strategic minimalism that enables maximum creativity.

"I don't like cooking that much"

Perhaps Gadoua's most revealing statement comes halfway through our conversation: "I don't like cooking that much."

It's a shocking admission from a chef, but there's crucial context: "I have no interest in getting slammed every night, throwing meat in pans. I'll do something else literally. I like cooking because there's a creative output."

This is the key to understanding Chez Jean-Paul. It exists not as a business venture or ego project, but as a creative space where Gadoua can explore food without compromise. "There's no doubt in my mind: If I couldn't be creative, I wouldn't be cooking. It's the number one thing," he says.

This philosophy explains his brief, ill-fated stint at a Saint-Lambert restaurant that fired him for a conflict of perspectives, like refusing to put wagyu beef on the menu.

"I wasn't making any compromise. But I understand why they fired me," he laughs. "The South Shore is literally 20 years behind. You need beef and salmon tartare as both appetizer and main. If you put offal on the menu, you won't sell any. If you put any fish other than salmon or tuna, you won't sell any."

At his own restaurant, he's found a different audience—one that appreciates sea urchin with roasted chicken butter so much that he offers it on a try-it-or-it's-free basis to skeptical diners. He claims only one person has ever rejected the dish after tasting.

Must be why the menu reads like a culinary manifesto written in shorthand: Sweetbreads with smoked rutabaga butter sit comfortably next to blood noodles with whipped ricotta—dishes that would send some diners running but have industry vets making reservations. Offal appears throughout without apology—duck hearts paired with foie gras parfait, veal tongue alongside morels—while Arctic char gets the double treatment of orange sauce and trout caviar.

There's a playfulness behind the precision, like the "Granny Suzanne's strawberry mousse (or almost)" that winks at tradition without being held captive by it. The most telling menu item might be the simple invitation at the bottom: "Let Jean-Paul decide!" At $90-110 per person, it's a fair price for what amounts to a culinary autobiography served in seven to nine acts.

Beyond categories

Ask Gadoua what kind of restaurant he runs, and he struggles to answer.

"That's the problem," he admits. "When we were working on the restaurant, people would say, 'What kind of food is it?' I was like, 'It's really hard to tell.'"

His training is French, but the flavours often aren't. Chinese techniques appear alongside Nordic-inspired preparations. His combinations will easily defy classification. What emerges from this culinary identity crisis isn't confusion but liberation. Without a rigid concept to maintain, Gadoua can follow his instincts.

"A friend told me, 'It's the best French restaurant in town,' and I didn't say anything," he says." "But when I came back to the kitchen, I was like, 'I guess for some people we're a French restaurant.'"

It's not for everyone—and that's the point

Chez Jean-Paul maintained a perfect five-star rating on Google for its first year—a remarkable achievement for a restaurant that doesn't try to please everyone.

He puts dishes on the menu knowing only 30% of diners might enjoy them, betting that those who do will become passionate advocates. It's a philosophy more aligned with European dining culture than North American expectations.

"We've been blessed," Gadoua says. "But we know some people came in and didn't like it at all. I'm OK with that."

Gadoua has built something increasingly rare in Montreal's restaurant scene: a place with genuine personality, where food reflects one person's distinct vision rather than market research or Instagram trends. If you go, you'll likely be asked to "let us cook for you"—a leap of faith that most diners find rewarded.

Like his grandfather who chose joy over longevity, Gadoua has rejected the safe path for something more meaningful. The result is a restaurant that's simultaneously stubborn and generous, technical and playful, French and, well, not-French—a place that could only exist in Montreal, created by someone who took the long way to find his voice and approach.

Chez Jean-Paul is located at 1141 Rue Bélanger.