Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Quebec Connection - A Trip to Quebec

Episode Date: October 3, 2025

“The Pensionne du Quebec was lit up like a party ship”We’ve got a Quebec selection for you on today’s podcast. A story about Sam’s school trip to Quebec City, plus a Stuart McLean script about cheese making in Quebec’s Eastern Townships, and a backstory from Jess about the trip they took to write that story. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Have you heard of guest favorites on Airbnb? Guest favorites are the most loved homes on Airbnb. Homes already tried and loved by other families like mine. That's how I've booked my most recent trips on Airbnb. In December, I want to take my girls, Eloise and Annabelle, to Quebec City. It's so gorgeous around Christmas. They really know how to embrace the season. When I started looking, the very first place that popped up was

an incredible suite right in the heart of historic Quebec City. And I loved knowing that it was a guest favorite. This home gives us so much space. And it means I can bring Molly, our dog, no kennel to book, no stress. Plus, there's parking included, which in Quebec City at Christmas is a gift all on its own. A little weekend away in one of the most loved homes on Airbnb. from the apostrophe podcast network hello I'm Jess Milton and this is backstage at the vinyl cafe welcome we're spending we're spending time in my home province today, Quebec.

Later in the show, I'll be playing an essay that Stuart wrote about a little frommagery that he took in in Quebec's eastern townships and telling you the behind-the-scenes life on the road story that led to that essay.

But first, a Dave and Morley story for you. This is Stuart McLean with A Trip to Quebec. They left on a Monday morning at the beginning of September, 7.30 a.m. The annual grade 8 trip to Quebec City. 7.30 in the morning and the entire neighborhood was revved up, all the mothers and fathers. You would have thought they were leaving for war.

Jenny Moore, poor Peter's mother, hovering by the bus with her eyes full of tears and her hands full of Kleenex. And Jenny wasn't the only one crying, just the most obvious. Jenny, ping-ponging from one teacher to another, would they remember Peter was allergic to eggs? Was there a bathroom on the bus? She'd given him 60 bucks. Yes, she knew it was supposed to be 40, but the extra 20, just in case. Peter was already on board. Peter clambered onto the bus the moment it arrived. Murphy was second. And when Murphy found out about the extra $20, which, excuse me, what do you think? He found out about right away. When Murphy found out, he reappeared out the front door like a bull weevil, and he used the information

to pry an additional $20 from his father. All the parents gathered around all the kids, all the kids with their fancy backpacks ignoring them, brothers and sisters, a nanny or two, and Mark Portnoy on the edge of it all looking lost. The only one of the only one, you know, the only kid who came by himself, the only kid carrying his stuff in a plastic bag. Before you knew it, it was time to go. The kids bouncing around the seats at the back of the bus, parent volunteers settling into the ones at the front, and Mr. Reynolds with his clipboard sticking his head out the front door, Mr. Reynolds looking up and down the street uncertainly, and sure enough, here they come. Dave and Sam running down the street. Backpacks slapping their thoughts.

Arthur barking as he tries to keep up. Sorry, puffed Dave when they got there. The alarm didn't go. David actually volunteered to be one of the parent supervisors. Mr. Reynolds had demurred. Oh, lied Mr. Reynolds when David called. That's very kind, but we already have a full compliment. Put me down as a backup, said Dave.

Over my dead body, thought Mr. Reynolds. After months of anticipation and weeks of planning, they were finally ready. Parents standing on either side of the bus waving at kids they couldn't see through the tinted windows. And then, when the bus finally pulled away, the two groups of parents suddenly finding themselves waving at each other. Everyone cracked up, waved even harder, and then walked down the street in twos and threes. Everyone except for Peter's mom, who sprinted to the next day. corner so she could catch the bus as it turned at the end of the block. Poor Jenny Moore, waving all by herself at no one at all. The only person who saw her was 22-year-old Pierre Massacott,

second year science social at the Universite de la Val. Pierre was sitting in the jump seat in the stairwell to the driver's right, and Pierre was too preoccupied to pay Jenny Moore any mind. Pierre was going over and over the speech that he had been more. preparing all week began like this. We're going on a fantastic trip, and I want you to leave everything you know behind you. I want you to pretend that we're in a boat, not a bus, and I want you to pretend that we have just left France. And just like the French people in the 17th century who climbed into their boats, we don't know where we're going, or what's going to happen to us. Pierre was their student guide.

And this was his first ever student trip. He had put a lot of thought and effort into his presentation. He waited until the bus hit the highway and he stood up and he reached for the mic. He took in a deep breath. We are going to Nouvelle France, he said. And we're going to be there for four days. I want you to be adventurers. I want you to give me your five senses for four days.

Instead of the rapped audience, he'd imagined. Pierre was greeted with the sounds of candy wrappers ripping, pop cans popping, game boys buzzing, leaky iPods, and snoring from one of the parent volunteers. Murphy turned to Sam and said, Last year they went to the IMAX. Do you think we'll get to go to the IMAX? The only people listening to Pierre were two girls sitting way up front

who were, we monsieur, we miss you, right from the start, and who were now pouring over Will Ferguson's Canadian history for dummies, apparently checking his facts. It was not the reception Pierre had imagined, but Pierre didn't give up. Pierre kept going. The food we're going to eat is not the same as your parents' food. I want you to taste the food. The houses are not your parents' houses.

They're made of stone. I want you to touch the stone wall. They were built by the French and the British 200, 300 years ago. I want you to smell horses and buggies and the smells coming out of the horses. Someone at the back of the bus

made a fart noise and everyone laughed. He'd lost them. He wasn't getting them back and he knew it. It was late afternoon before they closed in on Quebec, North America's only walled city and New York's only rival for best skyline anywhere anytime the breathtaking the breathtaking stone turrets and towers of the shadow frontenac guard the cliffs and cobblestones of old

Quebec like an ancient castle the Gibraltar of America everyone was pressed to a window as the bus rolled on to the Quebec bridge Pierre reached for the microphone. Longest cantilever bridge in the world, said Pierre. He waited until they were high above the river, about halfway across, and added as if it was just an afterthought, it's collapsed twice. It was the first reaction Pierre got all afternoon. Their hotel was a pension inside the walls of the old city. The floor is uneven and the stairways narrow. There was an elevator with a frayed green carpet with gold fleur de lis. But the elevator looked as old as the city, and the fleur de lis were like little worn moths. No more than two people with suitcases could

ride in the elevator at the same time, and everyone except the two girls from the front of the bus banged their suitcases up the stairs. They were billeted four to a room, two to a bed. They had half an hour to settle into their rooms and argue about who was going to sleep with whom. Then, they were to meet in the lobby. There were signs on their beds that said, phone the front desk if you need more pillows. They felt like royalty. It took about five minutes before they stopped answering the phone at the front desk.

When they went downstairs, Pierre circled them up in the lobby. We have an hour before dinner, he said. Go explore. No one go alone. And not beyond the Port Saint-Jean or Rue Saint-Anne. They couldn't believe. believe it. Sure, most of them had been away from their parents before. A lot of them had even been to camp, but at camp there was always someone watching. At camp, they never dropped you

in some town and let you wander around unsupervised. It was beyond the realm of their imaginations. They stood in the lobby for a moment in shock, and then off they went. The shy ones stuck to the teachers, but most of them headed off in groups of twos and threes. People, Peter Moore was like a cat let off a leash. Come on, he said. Murphy and Sam followed him out the front door of the hotel and down the street. Murphy led them into the first panur they saw. I want to get some Red Bull for tonight, said Murphy.

Look at this, said Peter. Peter was holding the biggest plastic troll doll they'd ever seen. Maybe two feet high with bright orange hair that stuck out in all directions. its troll hands perched on its hips. Peter said, watch this. The troll's eyes lit up and began to flash. There's a button on the back of its head, said Peter. It's only $21.

At five o'clock, they gathered in the hotel lobby and marched off like just another army set on conquering Quebec. Up the coat of la Fabric, along Rue de Trezor, they stopped at Champlain's statue in the Place d'Arm, and then headed along Rue Saint-Louis. Pierre pulled up in front of a little stone house with a steep red roof. Built in 1677, he said,

as they marched into a restaurant that was much too good for them. Pre-fixé, buff bourguignon, salad, and dessert. This meat looked like dog food, called a voice from the back. Less than half of them ate their stew. But they all devoured their dessert, sugar pie. At 10 o'clock that night, Mr. Reynolds went from room to room checking everyone was present and accounted for. He had a roll of masking tape in his pocket.

As he left each room, he tossed the masking tape in the air and caught it. I'm putting a strip of tape across your door, he said. Then he told them about the all-night security guard. If the guard saw the tape on their door was broken, he would know they had left their room. They didn't want to know how much trouble they'd be in if that happened. Is the guard armed? asked Peter Moore. He has a Kalishnikov, said Mr. Reynolds. Then, lights off a 10.30, right?

Yes, Mr. Reynolds. Yes, sir. We're pretty tired, sir. Good night, boys. Good night, Mr. Reynolds. 10.30? As if. There wasn't a light out by 2.30. There was much, too much to do. In Eleanor Michelin's room, four little girls at the time. set up a spa and were attempting to turn the bathroom into a steam room by running the shower at full tilt.

Two floors above in room 421, Mark Portnoy, the only kid with a bed to himself, was about to show his three goggle-eyed roommates who were sleeping in the other bed, how to make a blowtorch with a can of hairspray and a cigarette lighter in the shape of a cannon that he had bought on the Rue Saint-Jean. there was a marathon Xbox tournament getting underway in the room below them and on the top floor in Sam and Murphy's room there was a two-foot troll being lowered out the window

on the curtain sash at any moment it was going to come even with the window of the girl's room one floor below its red eyes flashing menacing menacing. All of this, of course, was happening behind the tape doors. So at 11 o'clock when Pierre reported to Mr. Reynolds that all was quiet, Mr. Reynolds nodded and said, you can go then. Mr. Reynolds took a look down the hotel corridor.

He wasn't naive enough to believe everyone was asleep. But as long as the kids were in their rooms, Mr. Reynolds was going to try his best not to think too hard about what might be happening in them. If he had stepped outside for a moment, and if he had looked at the hotel from the street, he would have seen that the Ponsillon de Vieu, Quebec, was lit up like a party ship.

There was steam billowing from one bathroom, what looked like a flamethrower, belching occasionally from the third floor, and a troll with flashing eyes dancing around in the night sky. Mr. Reynolds missed all this however And he was sound asleep by midnight Which was when Charlotte Groves got bored of her pedicure

And picked up the remote control And discovered Channel 2 The Blue Channel And Eleanor Michelin worked out how you could phone from room to room Without going through the switchboard And words spread like wildfire And pretty soon every television and every room was switched to channel to.

And the educational component of the trip to Quebec began in earnest. That's not real, is it? Said Peter Moore, moving close. or to the television. The next morning, Peter snuck back to the day panur during breakfast and spent every last cent of his lunch money on trolls. When Sam and Murphy

came back upstairs to clean up, Peter had his trolls, all sizes and shapes lined up on the windowsill like soldiers. There were 17 of them. Peter said, Murphy, I can't believe you've done this. What are you going to do for food? Peter didn't care. It was hours until lunch. Peter was lost on planet troll.

Look at this one, said Peter. Isn't it cool? Come on, said Sam. They were supposed to be in the lobby. They followed Pierre through Plasdarm and passed the chateau and onto the wide wooden boardwalk, suspended high above the river. To the east in the lee of the Isle-Lion, you could see the great colonies of stone. snow geese had begun to gather. Pierre was about to stop and point them out. From this distance, they looked like slashes of snow on the shore. Then he decided to let it pass, thinking as he kept walking, that winter was closer than he thought. It was in the Jardin de Guvonneur that he had his brainstormed. Come on, he said, and off they stormed to the plains of Abraham. Vene, venet, depache you, said Pierre. He divided.

divided them into two armies and assigned them all roles. Murphy was Governor-General Vodroy, Pierre, the Intentant Bigo, Sam was General Wolfe. What are we doing? asked Murphy. We're going to recreate the battle, said Pierre. You, he said, pointing at Mark Portnoy, you can be the Marquis de Montcalm. I don't want to be Moncom, said Mark. He lost.

We? We what? said Pierre. Who do you mean? We? Mark Portnoy shrugged. Canada, he said. Canada, said Pierre. There was no Canada then. They were standing on the green plains of Abraham, just outside the walls of the citadel. For the first time, he had everyone's attention. This wasn't, said Pierre, sweeping his arm around him. This wasn't a battle between English Canada and French Canada. There was no English Canada. There were British ships and British troops. Were they the Canadian Army? They weren't the Canadian Army. There was no Canadian Army. This was a European war that they fought here. Canada came later.

Canada hadn't been invented, not yet. They re-fought the battle three times. Everyone jumping and shooting and whooping around. Twice, the British one, and once, to make it fair, the French carried the day. Mark Hortnoy stomping around with his fist in the air. After the battle, Murphy, all grass-stained and sweaty, ran up to Pierre. That was pretty cool, said Murphy, but are we going to the IMAX? Last year they went to the IMAX.

Tomorrow, said Pierre, defeated. We're going to the IMAX tomorrow. Murphy pumped his fist in the air. Yes, said Murphy. This was going to be the highlight of the trip. NASCAR 3D with French subtitles. They left for the theater the next morning at 10. As they staggered onto the bus, Sam wheeled around and looked at Murphy.

I forgot my wallet, he said, patting his back pocket. I'll be right back. He peeled up to their room and he bounded back through the lobby as fast as he could. But it was four floors up and four floors down. And when he hit the sidewalk, he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't believe his eyes. The bus. had left without him.

Murphy should have stopped it, of course. But Murphy panicked. When the bus pulled away, Murphy thought Sam must have got on. He must be at the front. And then when they did attendance, and Sam clearly hadn't got on, when Mr. Reynolds called Sam's name and Sam didn't answer, Murphy did what he thought was the best thing under the circumstances.

He answered for him. Present, called Murphy. He was trying to keep Sam out of trouble. and it worked sort of except it left Sam all alone on Rue Saint-Jean in trouble

Sam stood there in front of the hotel for about five seconds felt a surge of panic and then Sam did the one and only thing he could think of doing he started running in the direction the bus had been pointing there was a red light

and he spotted it a block away but the light changed and the bus accelerated and even though he did too even though fueled by fear and his desire not to miss the movie, even though Sam ran harder than he'd ever run in his life running, even when he couldn't see the bus anymore, he lost it. And eventually pulled up, standing in the middle of a block, bent over his hands on his thighs,

a spent little NASCAR clean out of fuel. When he straightened up, he saw a policeman on the other side of the street, and he almost asked the policeman the way to the theater, but occurred to him, the policeman wouldn't just give him directions. The policeman would make calls, and he would for sure get in trouble. So he didn't ask the policeman. He asked the boy carrying the skateboard. It was only after he asked that he realized the boy with the skateboard was a girl.

And by then, she was as confused as he was, because as far as this little girl understood, this odd-looking boy that she had never seen before, had just asked her on a date to the IMAX. He had used his best French, but it had come out garbled and, what, said the girl, he thought was a boy? Sam wanted to start running again, but it was too late to start running again,

and anyway, where was he going to run to? So he tried again. The girl was leaning forward, looking at him really hard, and then she said, ah, and she started talking in French, and she was going so fast he didn't understand a word, not one word.

And she must have seen that because she stopped talking. And she said, It's too far from here. You can't do it. It's much too difficult. I have to, said Sam. Everyone's there.

I can't miss it. Everyone's there. His voice cracked. It's the best thing of the trip. He was still out of breath. He was thinking, I am not going to cry. I can't cry.

The girl shrugged. It's a difficult, she said again, man, I could show you there. And he wasn't sure, but maybe she reached out and wiped a tear off his cheek, or maybe he just wanted her to. She was wearing black boots and brown army pants way too big for her, and a baggy jacket, and they were walking beside each other, and she was saying, where are you two? And he said, the movie theater.

And she looked at him funny, and he understood. that she meant from. Where was he from? And he said, Toronto, I'm from Toronto. And she said, I'm so sorry. And then she was climbing up on the wall. On the wall that went around the city. And he was standing there below her. He didn't know what to say. So he said, I'm on a school trip. And she said, I see, I see. And they stared at each other without moving, and she waved her arms in exasperation and said, Viette.

Viette. It's okay. And before he knew it, they were walking along the old stone wall of the city, 30 feet in the air, the street on their left, the river on their right, like they were walking along railway tracks. Sam said, we drove past this yesterday. And then he told her about the plains of Abraham

and the museum, Peter's trolls talking to her back because she was ahead of him by a couple of steps, telling her how he had left his wallet in his room, and she slowed down, and they were walking beside each other, and she said, did you see the cannonball in the tree? And he said, which one? And she stopped talking, and she said, it's super cool. And she jumped off the wall, and the way she jumped, holding her skateboard over her head, was almost as cool as the way she had said, super cool. And he stood there, staring at her, and she said,

Vienne. And he jumped, and they ran down the narrow cobbled street hand in hand. Well, that's how he imagined they ran. Really, she ran in front of him, and he had to push to keep up. Sam had forgotten all about the IMAX. Tien, she said, pointing. And sure enough, it was a cannonball at the edge of a narrow lane, the roots of a tree,

gnarled around it. He smiled at her and he said, super cool. Then he said, I was General Wolf in the battle. And then he remembered she was French and he felt awkward. And he added, it was a play. Montcalm won once. And she said, I saw Montcalm's skull. The way she said it, he knew it was true. though the truth is he would have believed anything she said to him but the skull of Montcalm he was so mesmerized he started speaking fluent French ooh he said and the most magical thing happened

she understood him she said oh musei des cerselen and off they went again over another cobblestone hill to another museum to see the skull of Louis Joseph Le Marquis de Montcalm. When they got there, Sam said, well, actually, he said I've never seen a skull. But talking to her, it felt like he was saying it in French. When they got to the museum, the woman in the ticket booth said,

we don't have it anymore. They buried it with his troops in the Basseville five years ago. Too bad, said the. girl. It was a cute skull. Sam said, She said, Vue de choclet show? Yes, he said, noticing with relief

that he had his French back. They went into a little cafe on Rue Cuyard. She had a coffee that came in a little cup. His hot chocolate was served in a bowl. Sam didn't know how you were supposed to drink hot chocolate when it came in a bowl. a bowl. To be safe, he went to the counter and got a spoon and ate it like soup. She wanted to ask, is that the way the English do it?

But she didn't want him to think she was ignorant. The rest of his manners seemed perfect. Maybe they did it wrong. Instead, she said, am you, Daniel Belanger? Sam said, Jean-Avrel Levine. They had to take a bus to the theater. They sat at the back of the bus. He could feel her leg against his. He couldn't think of anything to say to her, so they barely said anything at all.

It took about a half an hour. When they got there, the big tour bus was parked outside. Sam said, that's my bus. There were kids getting on it. She said, I think you missed your movie. Sam said I can't miss my bus All he wanted to do In all the world was kiss her

He had never done that before They stared at each other That's what she wanted too She wanted him to lean forward and kiss her goodbye They shook hands It was so tragic But as he got up He kissed the air in her general direction

direction. Murphy said the movie was amazing. Murphy said, I can't believe you missed it. It was the best thing I've ever seen. Sam was looking out the bus window. The girl was standing there with her skateboard under her arm, her head to the side. Sam said, I'll see it another time. He lifted his hand and waved tentatively. She was looking right at him, squinting right at him. But she didn't waved back. She couldn't see him through the tinted windows. So he brought his hand up to his lips and blew her a kiss.

If he was older, he would have asked her name or her email or something. And if she was older, he wouldn't have had to ask. But he didn't know anything about her, really, except she had seen Montcalm's skull, and he didn't.

The last moment Sam saw her, Her Murphy was sitting beside him telling him something about the movie, but he wasn't really listening. He had his face pressed to the window. He said something under his breath, and Murphy said, I can't hear you. And Sam said nothing, it's okay. And then he turned back to the window and he said it again. Or au revoir, he said. Salil.

And then just before they turned the corner, she blew him a kiss. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. his first kiss and it was a French kiss and she was his first girlfriend ever thank you That was the story we call a trip to Quebec.

We recorded that in Quebec City in 2007. We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with more from Stuart McLean and a backstory about life on the road. So stick around. Welcome back. We're spending time in Quebec today on the pod.

Next up is an essay that Stuart wrote about the eastern townships. It's a bucolic pastoral piece, a piece that feels like that part of the world. peaceful, gentle, and full of beauty. But that's not how I feel when I hear this. I feel super anxious. And that's because I know how this essay came to be. Stewart wrote this script while we were visiting the Eastern townships back in 2011. We were there in the summer recording the first

two concerts of the next season. We used to do about 75 live shows every year, and most of those concerts were part of a tour. When we were touring, like on the Christmas tour, for instance, we'd be out on the road for three, four, even five weeks at a time. We'd do a concert pretty much every night of the week, and two on Sundays, so we'd do, you know, like 30 shows in 29 days, that kind of thing. We might end up recording one of those concerts for the radio, but not always. We'd be traveling to a different town every day or every couple of days, and we traveled mostly by bus. We had a tour bus. So most of our shows were like that, a tour, with a different stop pretty much every night of the week. But we also did 10 live concert recordings every year, and the pace of those shows was totally different.

When we were recording a live concert show, Stuart and I would arrive in town early. We'd drive in or we'd come by train or we'd fly. And we'd arrive a week before the show to try to get a sense of the town, to research it, to get the vibe so that we could write about it. In those situations, I'd usually rent us a little cabin or, you know, an Airbnb or something like that. And we'd set up shop there, the two of us, for a week or so. in the summer of 2011 we were heading to the townships as Quebecers call it the eastern townships and I was really excited I'd never been to the townships before but I'd heard all about the rolling hills and the organic farms and the amazing food scene I knew this trip was going to feel special and I knew

we'd need a lot of time to really get to know the place because neither of us really knew it that well I'd spent several days researching where to stay. The accommodation was going to be tricky for a few reasons. I was bringing my dog, spring. She was a tour dog. She often came with us. So the place we were going to stay needed to be pet friendly. But also, it was the week of Quebec's Fet National, St. Jean-Baptiste.

St. Jean is the official kickoff to summer in Quebec. And it's a weekend when many Montrealers head to the townships to start their summer vacation. It was one of the reasons we decided to do a show in the townships that week because it was Saint-Jean. It felt like a good time to celebrate that area of the country. But finding somewhere for me, Stuart, our sound guy, Bill Harald, and spring the dog to stay, was going to be a challenge. But I love looking for hotels and rentals, so I was up to the task. It took several days, but eventually I found us the most amazing. amazing house. It was this gorgeous cottage on a lake. I imagined waking up early before Stuart and Bill

and spending my morning drinking coffee and working, watching the sunrise over the lake. I imagined running in the forest with the dog. I imagined cooking dinner together in the big country kitchen. I imagined Bill Stewart and I working through the show together at night around the big stone fireplace. It was going to be perfect. I was so excited. I was driving to the townships from my place in Chelsea, Quebec, and Stewart was taking a train from Toronto to Montreal. I'd pick them up along the way. Bill was meeting us there later. He was driving on his own from Peterborough and his cube van with all of our production equipment. I loaded up the car. My suitcase, our vinyl cafe backdrop and the boxes of CDs went into the trunk, and spring the dog was in the front,

riding shotgun. I swung by Montreal and picked up Stewart, and the dog went into the backseat, resigned. I'd stopped along the way to pick up lunch. Stuart was a super healthy eater, but like all of us, he had a few things he'd indulge in once or twice a year, and he loved smoked meat sandwiches, his favorite place was the main in Montreal. I swung by the main and picked him up a smoked meat sandwich and he could smell it as soon as he opened the car door. Oh yeah, baby, he said, as he got in the car, meat from the main. I remember how optimistic and upbeat we both felt as we headed east. It was summertime. We had music blaring. We had smoked meat from the main. We had my dog in the back, and we were heading off to a new and interesting area to see what we could

find. We were heading off to write about it. But first, we wanted to unload our bags at the cottage. We wound our way around lakes and up hills and through the woods, and when we finally arrived at the cottage, it was even better than the pictures. Wow, Stewart said, standing on the back deck, looking all the way down to the lake, Great job, kiddo. I was proud. I had aced it. It was going to be great.

We started unloading all our bags, carrying them down the long, steep path from the parking spot to the cabin. You get the door open and start putting the things away, Stuart said to me. The dog and I will keep bringing the bags down from the car. I punched the key code in and entered the house. I fumbled around in the dark for the light, and finally found it, but when I did, nothing happened. Just a burnt bulb, I thought I'll run out and grab some to replace it.

I walked through the dark hallway, suitcases in hand, and into the kitchen. And the first thing I noticed was not the big picture window overlooking the lake. It was a faraway smell, a not so good smell. The second thing I noticed was not the big country kitchen, it was the fact that none of the light switches worked. I went over to the fridge and, with dread, opened it. That's where the smell had been coming from. Somewhat contained when the fridge was closed, but overwhelming and disgusting when it was open. Milk and cream and cheese all rotten. At that moment, Stewart walked into the kitchen

with a handful of paper and a strange look on his face. Houston, he said, we've got a problem. In his hand was a pile of notices from Hydro, Quebec. I guess the owners hadn't paid the bills. The hydro had been cut off. The house had no power. It took me several hours to contact the owners. When I eventually got a hold of them, they said they must have been paying the wrong hydro bill for the past few weeks or months. Who knows if that was true or not? Anyway, it didn't matter because it was Saint-Jean weekend. Hydro-Coubec wouldn't be able to take their call for at least three days. So there we were on Saint-Jean weekend with every hotel booked and nowhere to stay. There was also no cell service, so we couldn't call around. We loaded everything back into the car

and started going door to door, knocking on the door of every single hotel and motel and bed and breakfast in town. Eventually, I did find a single room for Bill, who was arriving later that week. One room down, two more to go. Or three, if you count Spring, the dog, which the people behind the front desk at the hotel certainly did, they counted Spring the dog. Having her with us made the whole thing even more complicated. When we did find two rooms, one for me, one for Stewart, that hotel wouldn't let us bring the dog. It takes a lot to make me feel discouraged. But I was there. No question. I was very discouraged. The light was starting to fade on the day, both literally and metaphorically. People often assume that Stewart was like Dave. And as I've told you

before many times on this podcast. He wasn't. Stuart was not Dave and Dave is not Stuart. But there are a couple of things that Dave and Stuart had in common. And one is this. Stewart had the most creative, curious, interesting solutions to problems that would come up. And he pulled a rabbit out of his hat on this one. He did what? all of us should do in times of need. He called a friend. He asked for help. He called an old friend, someone from way back when, who he thought might have a cottage in the townships. And that friend did what great friends do. He helped. He did have a cottage, and not only that, it was empty. He gave us the address, and we made our way there, and he had someone there to

greet us with a key and to give us a tour. And that house? Oh my gosh, it was beautiful and it was perfect. It was so much more perfect than the no hydro house because it came from a friend. Everything always works out in the end. And if it hasn't worked out, it's just not the end yet. That visit worked out perfectly. It worked out beautifully. And this is one of the scripts that Stuart wrote on that trip. We didn't use it in the show, but he wrote about it there. He wrote in that cottage from his friend. This is Stuart McLean, recorded in studio back in 2011.

So this summer, I spent a week in Quebec's Eastern Townships recording a couple of vinyl cafe shows. It wasn't my first trip to the townships. but it was, shamefully, the first time I stayed long enough to really experience them, to get them. I say shamefully because they're only about an hour or so from my hometown of Montreal. It was, truth be told, cheese that finally got me there. A cheese I'd been introduced to a few months before, a soft and creamy blue with an astringent tang of penicillin, a cheese that had, I was told, won a number of awards.

And that's how, this summer, I ended up in the little village of St. Elizabeth de Warwick to pay my respects to Jean Morin at the Frommenserie de Presbyterre. Jean Morin is the man who made the blue cheese that lured me there. You could drive right through the village of St. Elizabeth de Warwick and not notice it. It is just another little cluster of farm. along another little country road. There's no school in St. Elizabeth, no bank, no coffee shop, no restaurant.

Suddenly the maples along the side of the road thicken, and there's a general store, and a gas bar, and the cheese factory. And then, and then you're out of town. The cheese factory is the red brick house beside the church, the house with the wraparound porch, the house where the priest used to live. Jean Morin and his brother, Dominic, bought the house six years ago.

They've converted the old parlor into a little retail store and the upstairs bedrooms into offices. The cheese is made in the addition they built out back. They make six cheeses back there, including the blue that caught my mousy attention and brought me running. This year, two of those cheeses won prizes in the Canadian Cheese Grand Prix, including the top prize. Grand Champion, Best Cheese in Canada. I know how to pick them.

And there I was on a Tuesday this summer, and there was co-owner and head cheesemaker Jean-Morin bounding down the stairs in jeans, a t-shirt and sock feet to welcome me. We sat down in the front room beside the store, in the room that used to be the priest's office, and he told me his story. Until six years ago, Jean Morin was a dairy farmer, a farmer with a passion for cheese. His family farm is still directly across the street, and his family still farms it, as they have for four generations. This is how it works. Jean's brother and partner, Dominique, milks the cows at five every morning.

At seven, they haul the still warm milk across the street from the barn to the old priest's house where we're sitting. The day's first batch of cheese is in the molds by 11. You should be here on a Friday in the summer, says Jean. On Fridays, Jean stops production of all his fine. cheeses, La Liberté and the Louis d'Or and the blue St. Elizabeth. And he uses all the day's milk to make fresh cheese, frommage de fess, and cheese curds. The curds are ready for sale when the bell in the church next door rings at 6 p.m.

People start lining up, however, at 4 in the afternoon. And by 6, on a summer Friday, there will be 200,000. to 400 people waiting outside the store for cheese curds. They bring chairs and tables and candles and blankets and wine, and when they get their cheese, they sit on the grass by the side of the road and eat and drink. The local general store says that they now make more sales on a Friday night in the summer than they used to make all year round. Jean leans back and smiles, and then he says,

have to meet Marie Chantal. She is the best cheese maker in Canada. He's talking about Marie Chantal Oude, 30 years old, one of three people in Canada to hold certification from the cheese school in Poligny, France. Jean and I are now sitting in the curé's office. We have been talking for over an hour now. We have a half-finished bottle of wine and a selection of his cheeses on the table between us. Marie Chantal Oude smiles and looks at Jean. I call him the curé de frommage, she says. Like Jean, Marie Chantal has big feelings for cheese. She paid her way through university as an itinerant cheesemaker, going from farm to farm in her van making cheddar for farmers. Her cheese was a way for farmers to store their over quota milk. Milk they couldn't sell.

milk they would otherwise have had to throw away. Two years ago, after a decade of working for others, Marie Chantel decided she wanted to set up her own cheese factory, working with her brother Jean-Paul, who is a sheep farmer. She couldn't find a bank that would loan her the money. So Jean invited her to make her cheese in his little factory in St. Elizabeth. I provide her with a space, says Jean. she helps me with my cheese.

And so Marie Chantal began the Fomagery, New France. She made her first wheel of cheese one year ago, and this spring she won four prizes in the prestigious Cassius Awards, including Best Cheese in Quebec. Do you want to taste it? she asks. And so we get up and go into the little factory, through the room with a stainless steel vat where they cook the milk every morning

and into one of the pristine white aging rooms. A cold white locker with rows of wooden shelves. Could have been a wine cellar. But instead of wine, the shelves are stacked with wheels of cheese. Some of them the size of birthday cakes, some which weigh 40 kilograms as big as a tire. Each cheese is tagged and dated. Marie Chantel picks up one of her cheeses.

This is one of the first cheeses I made here, she says. The tag says it was made a year ago. She hands it to Jean. Jean pulls a silver tool from his pocket. It looks like a tent peg with a handle. He works the tool through the rind and deep into the cheese. He pulls it out. It brings with it a plug of cheese the length and width of my middle finger.

He hands one to me and another to Marie Chantal. This is the first time I've ever tasted my cheese at a year old, says Marie Chantal. She holds the small plug of cheese in her hand. Every cheese has its perfect moment, she says. As a cheese maker, my job is to find the perfect age. She breaks the little plug apart. and begins to roll a small piece of cheese in her fingers. She's working the cheese the way a child might work a piece of plasticine.

To warm it up, she says. She brings the softened cheese to her nose. She puts it in her mouth, and she closes her eyes. I do the same. It was, and how do I say this? It was, Amazing, salty and sweet, a taste that lingered on my palate like wine. I smile at Marie Chantal.

There are tears in her eyes. It is my baby, she says. It makes me want to cry. Four hundred years ago, when the first French settlers were scratching out their farms along the St. Lawrence River Valley, There were little cheesemakers working in Nouveau-France, making the fine cheeses of their homeland. The first was a Monsieur Aubin, who worked on the Isle-D'Auland. The story of cheese in Quebec, like so many stories in that beautiful province,

is the story of the push and the pull between the English and the French. After the seven years' war, when Britain held sway over the New World, the cheesemakers of Nouveauphonse abandoned the soft cheeses they knew for the hard cheddars they could sell to the British and even shipped to England. The unsalted curds, a byproduct of cheddar production, the leftovers, became the snack of the Quebecois. And so it was for centuries.

Thirty years ago, European cheesemakers came to Quebec, and began to turn the clock backwards. And now, all across the province, artisans are walking backwards into the future. The cheese that's being made in all the little villages round and about is being made by people like Jean and Dominique Morin, and Marie Chantal and Jean-Paul Oude, a brother making cheese from the cows his brother milks, a sister using milk from her brother's sheep.

Jean-Morin and Marie Chantel have plans to make a cheese together, a cheese that will be half cow's milk and half sheep's. I have always thought that could be the best cheese ever, says Marie Chantel. The story of that cheese, like all good stories, will be the story of a small collision, the story of a man and a woman, of salt and milk, of English and French. of brothers and sisters, of grandparents and grandchildren, of this generation and that. It is the story of Canada. No wonder she had tears in her eyes. That was Stuart McLean, recorded in studio at the CBC back in 2011. And Greg, I'm just looking at the studio script from back then,

and it says that you are recording in. engineer. So, I mean, no surprises there, but seeing that and looking through the glass at you right now, I guess, geez, 14 years later, pretty cool. That makes me happy. All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with a special episode for Canadian Thanksgiving. We're going to play some more of Stuart McLean's beloved Arthur Awards. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the apostrophe podcast network. The recording engineer is, say cheese, Greg.

Cheese, Greg DeClute. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeClute, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now. Thank you.