Well I started my new mandate this week, and it's in the middle of nowhere. They call it the Cité des Multimédia, a seemingly desperate attempt at this time to revive this almost barren and abandoned part of Montréal. Now it seems to come alive with high priced super-condo buildings popping up, luxurious lofts built in old factories. It's getting there and it will soon replace The Plateau as the hippest place in North America. It's the ultimate pastiche of modernity and early industrialization.

Most businesses there right now make it look like a mini-Silicon Valley growing in a bombed-out neighborhood. It's all tech-related. All of them and a few chic architect offices. But in the middle of it all an art gallery has sprung up for modern art and artists to find shelter. It would make Trent Reznor salivate with envy. I didn't even get the name of the gallery. But in there, there's a small art bar. Take a good look at this picture.

Now look again, in the window, near the corner of the street, you see it? That's as visible as the sign gets. Since the beginning of the week I've seen a lot of taxis stop and back up. You blink and you can miss it. As I did. I was walking by when it caught my eye. I was scouting the area to take pictures and for restaurants. I refuse to brown bag. I hate making, packing and carrying my lunch to work. I'll survive on hot-dogs and Coke if I have to but I will not brown bag. And the area is devoid of restaurants. Or so I thought.

I was walking on the sidewalk when Lara caught my eye. Someone had graffitied Lara Croft on the wall leading to Cluny's. I snapped a picture and that's when I saw a plaque advertising Cluny's restaurant. This had coolness written all over it. I had to go in.

You enter the lobby and you start feeling lost. It's a big square lounge with a sofa and a wooden table. You hear the tinkerings of a kitchen so you follow the noise and walk into a small unpretentious cafeteria but everything has a feel of restaurants you see in movies and always wonder where you can find those restaurants. You pick up your bright yellow plastic tray and head on to the grub.

You have no idea what to expect. You look in the counter and it's loaded with sandwiches in French baguette of chiapata bread. They all look delicious, but which one do you take? The roasted veggie delight? Or the Hawaiian chicken with roasted red peppers, Spanish onions, pineapple and what seems to be a whole chicken breast ripped into chuncks. But there, while you debate with your inner-avarice chewing your insides for the sandwichy goodness before you, you see the chef preparing something, you can't really see or understand what it is, but like a bug to a flame, you desire it. You say to the chef: "What's that?". It's meatloaf. Not your aunt's meatloaf covered with Campbell's tomato soup as sauce. Oh no!