The Julius Caesar of Café Cléopâtre

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

URBANIA and the MEM – Centre des mémoires montréalaises collaborated to create the exhibition Détours – Rencontres urbaines, presented at the MEM. This immersive experience reveals the human richness that makes up Montreal through encounters with 25 extraordinary locals.

In the same spirit, we’d like to introduce Johnny Zoumboulakis, a citizen who, in his own way, embodies the uniqueness of Montreal.

If you enjoy his story, you’ll love the unique portraits featured in Détours – Rencontres urbaines.

When I arrive at Café Cléopâtre to meet its owner at the agreed time, I’m told he’s stuck in traffic. “Shouldn’t be too long. Have a seat, order a beer,” says a friendly, mustachioed bartender in his early fifties. The room is completely empty, except for a couple quietly sipping their drinks and a dancer busy with a client in a booth at the back.

The speakers play songs from the 70s and 80s at a low volume, none of which I recognize.

It’s hard to explain Café Cléopâtre to someone who has never set foot inside.

On the first floor, you’ll find an unconventional strip club that challenges traditional beauty standards. The second floor hosts a cabaret that holds historical significance for the LGBTQ+ community—you might also have caught a comedy show during Zoofest or done some naked karaoke with colleagues here. As for the third floor, perhaps you’ve been there to get vaccinated before a trip down south.

An enigmatic temple of pleasures, I’d only been to Café Cléopâtre twice before meeting the owner Johnny Zoumboulakis, who’s run the place since 1985. The first time, I had a quick beer before bolting out. The second was for a show by the American comedian Ari Shaffir on the second floor. What can I say? I’m not much of a night owl.

Mr. Zoumboulakis appears in the doorway ten minutes—and two offers for a lap dance—later. He politely shakes my hand, and I slip into his office behind the kitchen, under the gaze of employees and regulars.

Despite his efforts to put me at ease, I still feel like a 16-year-old sneaking into a strip club.

An unconventional bar with unconventional dancers

“I’ve never had rigid beauty standards for the women who work here. The woman you see on the street and find attractive is usually not the same woman you’d find in a strip club. But she’s someone you can open up to and create a real connection with. That’s what’s important to me. A customer who feels listened to and understood is a customer who will come back,” Johnny says.

The look of Café Cléopâtre’s dancers has always created conversation, for better or worse. It was the first thing that struck me when I visited for the first time in 2006. I felt like I’d stumbled into a scene from Total Recall. At 23, I had limited experience with strip clubs, and Johnny Zoumboulakis’s progressive hiring policy unknowingly opened my eyes to a celebration of desire I was entirely unprepared for.

The rules for working at the cabaret are simple: Dancers must be at least 18 years old (which, according to Zoumboulakis, isn’t always as easy to verify as it seems), they must not steal, they should act respectfully, and they should take good care of the customers.

“Some organizations have offered to bring their girls in, promising me double the revenue, but I was never interested. I like my bar the way it is. I don’t need it to grow.”

Johnny believes that the integrity of his establishment and finances has kept him out of trouble over the years. “I’ve always maintained good relationships with everyone. The path hasn’t always been easy, but respect breeds respect. I truly believe that.”

“Montreal was the city for me. I wouldn’t have wanted to live anywhere else.”

Johnny Zoumboulakis arrived in Montreal in 1966 at the age of 18. Originally from a small farming village south of Sparta, Greece, his homeland’s lifestyle couldn’t compete with the image of America portrayed in films of that era.

“Houses didn’t have addresses. There was only one phone for the entire village. I wanted to drive a convertible with a beautiful woman next to me, her hair blowing in the wind, just like in the movies. A lot of immigrants at the time shared the same fantasy,” he recalls.

Zoumboulakis decided to settle in Montreal, where he already had family. The city was very different back then. Park Avenue was filled with 24-hour restaurants. “If you wanted to eat a whole pizza at five in the morning, you could do it. It was a different time. COVID killed whatever was left of it,” he says.

Arriving in Montreal on a Sunday afternoon, he started working in a casse-croûte at the corner of Beaubien and Saint-Laurent the next morning. He learned the ropes behind the fryer, quickly became a pizza maker and delivery driver, and, with this newfound mobility, landed his first bartending job—which eventually led him to Café Cléopâtre.

“Back then, Montreal wasn’t just lively in the afternoon or early evening. It was alive all night, until the early hours of the morning. I was never a big party animal, but I loved it. The city was buzzing with life.”

He was hired at Café Cléopâtre in 1976, just before the Montreal Olympics. Already trained in a small bar on the western side of downtown, his talents were quickly recognized, and he was increasingly entrusted with responsibilities. What began as simple shifts covering for sick colleagues turned into long hours learning the ins and outs of the business, eventually making Johnny the de facto manager of Café Cléopâtre for several years before he acquired it nine years later.

“They sold me the business because I was the right person at the right time, but also because I was given a chance. It wasn’t a gift, but I was given the opportunity to succeed,” he says.

A historic haven for LGBTQ+ communities

“It dates back to before I even became the owner,” Johnny tells me about Café Cléopâtre’s ties with the LGBTQ+ community. Before continuing, he glances briefly at his security cameras. A painting of the actress La Poune leans against the wall and watches over us discreetly.

“Two detectives from the Montreal police and one of their girlfriends approached us about the LGBTQ+ community. They told us they had a large, loyal clientele looking for a stable, safe place to hold their shows. We all discussed it and decided to open our doors to them. They also mentioned it could be a troublesome crowd, but I never had any issues with those folks.”

The drag shows quickly became popular, giving Café Cléopâtre the momentum to enter a new chapter of its entertainments.

The team at Café Cléopâtre then established strict rules of conduct to ensure that shows would run smoothly. Respect was paramount, and any disruptions were handled immediately.

“Back then, someone could get slapped in the face right on the street, and no one would react—just because of their sexual orientation.”

“The city was dangerous for the community. Imagine a doctor, someone who spends his day running around saving lives, getting slapped just because he chooses to dress differently on his own time. I never accepted that kind of behaviour.”

“One thing that makes me both sad and proud are the calls from parents across Canada, thanking me for finally giving their son or daughter a place where they could be themselves safely. Those were always very meaningful moments for me,” he continues.

The Main before anything else

Johnny Zoumboulakis speaks slowly in English that’s heavily accented by his Greek roots. His deep love for Montreal hasn’t pulled him away from his heritage; in fact, he’s been returning to his hometown village once a year for some time now.

“The Main is for everyone. Whether you’re Francophone, Anglophone, or Allophone, everyone works together, drinks together, has fun together. I’ve always believed in the Main as the heart of Montreal’s entertainment. It’s the reason Montreal gained its reputation as a city with great nightlife.”

As part of its plans for the Quartier des Spectacles, the Société de développement Angus sought to relocate Café Cléopâtre to a smaller building. But Zoumboulakis fought to stay right where he was. Everyone advised him to pack up and cut his losses. Other iconic businesses on Saint-Laurent Boulevard, including the Montreal Pool Room, accepted the offer and relocated. What followed was a highly publicized three-year battle against expropriation.

For Johnny Zoumboulakis, it wasn’t about money or a business opportunity—it was a matter of principle. After years of confrontation in court and in the media, he ultimately succeeded in making the real estate giant back down. 

“We shouldn’t think about culture and history in terms of revenue. We have to make an effort to preserve it, because if we demolish what’s left of the Main, we’ll never get it back.”

Zoumboulakis is aware, however, that the future of this street he loves so deeply doesn’t rest in his hands. Still, he’s proud of the journey and of having done his part to preserve that untamed spirit of Montreal he holds so dear.

In the end, what can you wish for a man who owns a kingdom?

“That Cléopâtre continues to reign over the Main long after I’m gone,” Johnny says with a knowing smile.

Did Johnny Zoumboulakis’s story inspire you to explore Montreal’s unconventional side? Visit the MEM – Centre des mémoires montréalaises (1210 St-Laurent) for the immersive exhibition Détours – Rencontres urbaines (tickets available online). There, you’ll meet 25 extraordinary individuals who each bring a unique soul to their city.

From Lisa Grushcow, Canada’s first openly lesbian rabbi, to Lazylegz, a breakdancer on crutches; Junko, a multidisciplinary artist turning scrap metal into art; Ramzy Kassouf, an urban farmer; and Clifford Schwartz, owner of the country bar Wheel Club—each person has a remarkable journey and fascinating stories to share.

Follow URBANIA for more independently produced and intelligent entertainment out of Quebec.